Clayfeld Holds On

from “Clayfeld’s Farewell Epistle to Bob Pack” Beneath this mellow harvest moon, I can still picture you—a boy content just fishing with his father from a ledge above a foaming stream. The flailing trout you caught is packed in gleaming ice; the pink stripe all along its side is smeared across black shiny dots that seem to shine with their own light. I’m sure that you can picture me with equal vividness, and though we’re not identical, there is a sense in which I am inventing you as much as...