Fishing With My Dad

It was nothing fancy. Just a can of corn and a couple of poles. Dad took me after church sometimes. I’d usually catch more branches than fish. The first time I took the hook out myself I cried, thinking the fish was hurt, but stopped when the gill sliced my hand and I got mad. Listening to the birds, the lapping of the water, the sound the paddles made as our canoe sliced through the lake. The fish never smelled like fish, but like the lake instead. Once I hooked my dad’s arm, I thought I’d be in trouble but he just removed the hook, smiled and gave it back to me. I was hooked too. Now I take my own daughter and my two boys every chance I get!