Fishing

Almost to the end of the hallway on the left, just across from the second set of doors that hide the old sports equipment, hangs a picture of my father as I never knew him.
My father always claims to hate this picture. Dad grumbled when my grandfather had the picture drawn from an old photograph, claiming his father was just wasting a lot of money.
It's not a great drawing: some of the lines look a little bit too. Too thought-out. Too studied.
The picture arrests me every time I go down that hallway: my steps hitch as I see my father, with curved cheeks and a thoughtful happiness in his face, as he's standing outside.
I don't remember whether he really is, but I always imagine that he was just out to go fishing.
Out at my grandparents' farm.
That I know I've made up: they didn't own the farm when my dad was that small.
But the outdoors pictured have the same smell of pine and rotting reeds, with a whiff of hay, cow feed and motor oil in the background.

We went fishing yesterday. I could see the cabin's logs reflecting on the surface as I cast my rod. Everywhere. In the trees, in the reeds, in the brambles.

Without me having to ask, my dad hooked my worm for me.

He even switched poles when he kept catching fish, as if it were the pole, and not my massive incompetence that was preventing me from the haul of a lifetime - or, at least, some of the teensy bluegills he was catching.
When we got back, I went out to find him to tell him I was leaving.
He stopped in his gutting, beheading and scaling of the fish to wish me a good trip.
He was so patient at the pond. Waiting for a bite, waiting for the fish to set, then reeling in at just the right speed.
Maybe my dad will teach me how to fish one of these days.

We rode together Saturday morning. He beat me. It was still fun. Perhaps, today, my back will feel better enough to run. Seems strange to not run at all today, given that the same time last year I was running NYC.