A Day of Fishing with my Dad

A Day of Fishing

I can still remember that day. All the beauty of nature collected in one moment. I can still feel the sponginess of the winter-aged leaves under my feet. I felt as though I was walking on a cloud, the softness of the leaves cushioning my every step, they were guiding me along the wooded path to a small creek. The humming of the water moving with the crispness of the air, together they were singing a promise of a fresh and clean new season. It was a beautiful spring that year. Every so often a day like that comes back and I am reminded of posing for our picture together.

My cheeks begin to ache as I remember the smile so big on my face when the camera snapped. I thought my face would break in half if I tried to smile any wider. I was four years old and my hair was a lovely brunette with spears of pale blonde. The color every woman dreams of now. Shoulder length and bobbed I covered all my hair with a baseball hat, a smaller vesion of my father, we were going fishing. My skin was white for lack of sun from winter but my cheeks were bright red from the brisk air. T-shirt and jeans I was ready to fish. Of course my mother made certain that I was wearing my spring jacket.

My mother seemed so happy. In my reflection of the situation her dream of a family had come true. She had me and my father, we were spending quality time together. She wasn't too fond of fishing, not that it was my favorite thing to do either; but my father was taking us. Wow he loved fishing. It's funny, I can't really remember what my mother was wearing but then again she wasn't in the picture. She was behind the camera and I think sometimes my memories fade when there isn't a picture to remind me.

My father seemed to share my moth...

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...d dreams.

It is not like I never see him or talk to him; I do. He has been in and out of my life ever since. Occasionally he calls to say hi or ask how I'm doing; he is never consistent. Our convesations are short and very uncomfortable. When I am out shopping or running errands I sometimes run into him by chance, (or fate who knows). All of our truths and his lies are always there but never talked about. I can't remember the last time he called on my birthday, sometimes I wonder if he even remembers my birthday or even thinks of me when my birthday comes around every year. He never calls on holidays. It is really hard for me to talk to someone who was once my father, and now is a complete stranger. After all the things I know about my father, the strangest feeling I have is under the hurt and the pain, what I hope and pray for is day we might go fishing again.