Fishing for Love
I woke up, got dressed, and rushed down the narrow stairs. I ran into the warm kitchen, illuminated by the sun.
Pancakes and sausage were sizzling in the brand new frying pan he bought for my mom. His harsh hands flipped them until they were left with a delicious golden color. He talked, and I laughed, but nothing he said was funny. It was more of a nervous, I-don’t-know-you laugh. He’d been gone for six months, and when you’re seven years old, six months is forever.
We got into his bread truck that smelled of rust and gasoline. We were headed for the Sussex County Fair Grounds for the annual youth fishing competition.
I hated fishing. The idea of catching a slimy, bitter fish on a hook was not appealing at all. But, I went anyway because I was spending time with my father, the person who I was unfamiliar with. The only reason I had to believe he was my father was because every one told me so. There was no goodnight kisses pressed gently upon my forehead, and never any “you’ll always be my little girl’s” spread around. On this day, for the FIRST TIME EVER, his breath smelled of hot dogs and mustard from an early lunch, not the alcohol which drenched his heart with loneliness.
I fished for half a day, catching one sunny after another. They seemed to decrease in size as the day went on. Each time I stared into the five-gallon pail leftover from a recent spackle job, I gazed at the tiny fish swimming in whirlpools, wondering how boring it must be.
But every fish I caught, he smiled at me. There wasn’t any anger; his voice was full of joy. For the first time, pride swept him off of his feet, glowing with love and ease.
“Pull it in now, nice and easy…almost here, almost here…you did it!”
I did it. I caught the fish that just might win the competition. Although winning didn’t matter to me, it mattered to him. It always did. He wanted faith to run through my veins, so he could feel that he finally did something right. He wanted me to be his little girl.
But, one day out of the seven years of my life could never make me adore him as much as he hoped. But, that day when he smiled at me, he won me over. For one day, I was his little girl because I understood that he was my father for more reasons than science and blood.
And that day, I won the competition. I got first place, and I won a fishing pole, similar to the one I already had, but I didn’t care about what prizes I got. I cared about the feeling that came over me every time I looked up at his wounded eyes and his assuring smile. He taught me that pain isn’t always a bad thing; sometimes you need to stay above water to know when to jump back in. I loved him for each minute of that day, for every word he said, and for all of the smiles, because after that, he had nothing left to give.
I woke up, got dressed, and rushed down the narrow stairs. I ran into the warm kitchen, illuminated by the sun.
Pancakes and sausage were sizzling in the brand new frying pan he bought for my mom. His harsh hands flipped them until they were left with a delicious golden color. He talked, and I laughed, but nothing he said was funny. It was more of a nervous, I-don’t-know-you laugh. He’d been gone for six months, and when you’re seven years old, six months is forever.
We got into his bread truck that smelled of rust and gasoline. We were headed for the Sussex County Fair Grounds for the annual youth fishing competition.
I hated fishing. The idea of catching a slimy, bitter fish on a hook was not appealing at all. But, I went anyway because I was spending time with my father, the person who I was unfamiliar with. The only reason I had to believe he was my father was because every one told me so. There was no goodnight kisses pressed gently upon my forehead, and never any “you’ll always be my little girl’s” spread around. On this day, for the FIRST TIME EVER, his breath smelled of hot dogs and mustard from an early lunch, not the alcohol which drenched his heart with loneliness.
I fished for half a day, catching one sunny after another. They seemed to decrease in size as the day went on. Each time I stared into the five-gallon pail leftover from a recent spackle job, I gazed at the tiny fish swimming in whirlpools, wondering how boring it must be.
But every fish I caught, he smiled at me. There wasn’t any anger; his voice was full of joy. For the first time, pride swept him off of his feet, glowing with love and ease.
“Pull it in now, nice and easy…almost here, almost here…you did it!”
I did it. I caught the fish that just might win the competition. Although winning didn’t matter to me, it mattered to him. It always did. He wanted faith to run through my veins, so he could feel that he finally did something right. He wanted me to be his little girl.
But, one day out of the seven years of my life could never make me adore him as much as he hoped. But, that day when he smiled at me, he won me over. For one day, I was his little girl because I understood that he was my father for more reasons than science and blood.
And that day, I won the competition. I got first place, and I won a fishing pole, similar to the one I already had, but I didn’t care about what prizes I got. I cared about the feeling that came over me every time I looked up at his wounded eyes and his assuring smile. He taught me that pain isn’t always a bad thing; sometimes you need to stay above water to know when to jump back in. I loved him for each minute of that day, for every word he said, and for all of the smiles, because after that, he had nothing left to give.
2 comments:
Ah lady! I love the things you've added to this piece.
"sometimes you need to stay above water to know when to jump back in"
That's oh so very true.
Amazing,really and truely.
you read this wonderfully also.
love it love it love it
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