Fishing with dad, brothers, sons,
daughter, grandsons—
a stringer of memories,
vacations at the lake, sunrise,
sunset paints the water,
reflect the brilliant colors.
Bass, crappie, perch,
blue gills, Northern pike—
gag at guts while
learning to clean.
Late night fish fries.
Don’t swallow the bones.
Cram down white bread if you do.
Snuggle under heavy quilts
against the northern cold.
Now in old age,
I look at my poles—
did I need that many?
Gear in the garage corner,
no more to battle fish
who won or lost.
I think of a future boy,
ragged T-shirt and jeans,
holey tennies, cowlick proud.
His parents found the poles
my kids donated
to the local charity store
after I passed.
He squats on the bank
of a local pond,
weedy and dank,
grips the old,
but still shiny pole,
smiles as he
launches the worm.
A silvery fish
will leap skyward,
thrill that boy’s heart
as mine did when
my dad exclaimed
at my first tiny bluegill,
as my grandsons did
when we pulled in
that largemouth bass.
We will never know each other.
I am not sure this will happen.
But it could.
Originally published in The Wise Owl