The bobber popped under, and the rod jerked. Dad dropped his beer and wrapped his arms around me, his worn-smooth, calloused paws over my tiny hands, holding me holding the fishing pole. He loved me then, me laughing and struggling, reeling in my first bluegill.
That night I watched Dad swing on the porch, sweating Bud in his hand, smoke curling from the ash tray like a pig’s tail, all set against the overlapping buzz of AM ballgame static and bugs zapping in the summer night. I couldn’t get any closer, but from that distance I could love him too.
That night I watched Dad swing on the porch, sweating Bud in his hand, smoke curling from the ash tray like a pig’s tail, all set against the overlapping buzz of AM ballgame static and bugs zapping in the summer night. I couldn’t get any closer, but from that distance I could love him too.
