Lazy Sunday Mornings

My father took my brother and I fishing on lazy Sunday mornings

When early pungent mist hovered over the water; like a second skin

Giving the lake a spooky visage and making me feel as though its

waters were eternal

We would have to traverse this wonderful old bridge that stood over

the water

It had big gaping holes that time had eaten from the wooden planks

My brother and I thought we would fall in sometimes, or that a

bog creature was sure to

Rise, drawn by the creaking planks protesting our weight

 

I would pick out one of the fattest night crawlers and put it on the hook with the utmost

Care; my little fingers pink from the cold dawn

I would fold the wriggling worm over upon itself just how my father instructed

I would request that my bobber be red side up, always a silly superstition with me

Red side up meant I would catch a fish, if not a fish then I would see something else

That piqued my curiosity

Then we would sit for hours in the quiet serenity, watching the bobbers and the water

Bugs that would skitter over its surface, I was always amazed at their grace and the

Way they seemed to defy gravity

The loons would call out across the water; lonesome with birdsong

I would feel so connected to nature during these times; knowing I had a part in it all

Grateful for this glimpse of oneness

I knew, even at this early age, that these moments were fleeting in present

And that even if I tried to hold onto them with two fists I would be disappointed

Time marches, kids grow, but memories last a lifetime