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The Inspiration …
A story …
“Hey, pumpkin.”
I open my eyes, my room pink with sunrise. Dad’s sitting on the edge of my bed. He ruffles my hair.
“It’s my birthday!”
Yes! That’s right! It’s always our day together, just us two. There will be fishing, joking and a picnic lunch. I grin up at him.
“Something different this year, pumpkin. You need to send your mom to me.”
I bolt up in bed; a full moon floods the room silver, matching my hair. Dad passed away five years ago, leaving me and mom.
Mom. MOM!
I’m reaching for my phone when it starts ringing.
********************************************
Now, your turn.
Steve Fletcher says: Looking back, he has no footprints in the sand. I do, stretching all the way to the car.
I know he has no footprints. There had been footprints once upon a time. Just me and grandpa, casting out, hoping for a perch or a lake trout. But grandpa got pneumonia last year. Everybody has their time I guess.
But I… we still go fishing. I still see him in his yellow shirt with his white cap pulled low across his eyes. “Whatcha doin’, Squirt.” “Just wastin’ time, waiting for the ferry.” “Whatcha doin’, Grandpa? “Me,” he says, “just wastin’ time.”
Steve White says: We fished separately. We always did. We’d be on the same beach together and it would be as if Dad was a thousand miles away. I don’t think he ever watched me fish but I always watched him. Sometimes when I caught a large one he’d walk over with a landing net and, without a word, help get the fish into the cooler. Then he’d slide back to his spot. Grandma told me once that it was just the way he was, that Afghanistan had done something to him. She never said what, and he never said anything.
guinspen
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