In Search Of

We drown them in money and drain Loch Ness. The machines lurch, clearing, bracing, digging. The shore sprouts concrete and industrial pumps. Buoyed by cell phones, the public catalogs every shiny, slivering sip. Animal bones, stirred-up sediment, and torrents of nothing—mundane miracles and wreckage—draw disappointed sighs. Then a yip. A shout. A cheer. The plastic payload: a sunken toy boat. No sign of the head. My grandfather smiles and rises, his earthly work done. I showed him the confession about the surgeon's photo online. But he was stubborn. A see-it-to-believe man, god rest his soul.

Nicholas De Marino