Retrospective

Fishing with my father

My father took me fishing during the golden hour of sunrise. A sacred moment drenched with a curse.

Dad prepped his Fenwick rod and Daiwa spinning reel. No eye-contact, self-absorbed, bored with me,

fixed his lure, selected his fly cast into the sun’s first glimmer, presentation of the fly in shallows, the slow drag like a long, steady inhale.

My line caught on tree branches, We’re not angling for bird’s nests, son. I cranked down on the drag until the snag broke.

Dad gut hooked a bronze-back, a white oak bruised the bank of the lake with shade.

The smallmouth bass flopped in the bottom of the boat, in its unimagined, waterless heaven, gills sucking at the morning chill.

Be Open Says;