A Remembered Time
by Michael Escoubas
Fishing isn’t always about catching fish.–Grandpa “E”

We boys had fidgeted all live-long day
waiting for Dad to come home.
He had promised to take us fishing,
and Dad always kept his word.

At last the hour came …
Dad’s rusty, clunky, faded green
pickup roared into the lane
announcing he was home.

With cane poles, tackle, and worms,
we rode together,
down to the lake. The old pier
had splinters which tore our jeans.

It didn’t matter … nothing mattered,
in that moment. We knew he loved us
by the blood on his fingers
threading worms on our hooks.



 

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