Fishin' in the Mornin'

Today I got up early, like I did when I was little and living with my dad on The Island.

I have no snow anymore, but I had snow then. It would pile on the cedars and wait until you passed underneath, then the winter birds would take flight, looking back over their winds with a beakish smirk to watch you dig melting ice out from under your collar.

We would trudge to the lake, a glorified pond in the center of The Island with three frozen tributaries like Winterland Slip 'n Slides. Dad would make me swear not to tell the mom, and he'd go down first, his block and tackle on his chest. He always told me to count to twenty, but I always got nervous when he disappeared behind the stumps and wilting ferns and snow mounds so I jumped to follow and usually rammed into him before he had time to clear the path.

He always got mad, but he loved it.

The shack was always there; I never questioned how, even though with age I can imagine him sneaking out of our three-room house in the pre-dawn and trekking to the pond, in the dark, alone, and pulling the tiny wood shanty inch by inch onto the frozen water.

I pretended to help him chip the hole and he waited until I got tired, then finished the job. We would fish then, rarely catching anything and never ever speaking. Then the sun would peak and we'd pack and be home for supper with mom.

Now I fish alone on the rocks. Barefoot and dirty with a single long pole and the waves that are warm and move and not nearly as mysterious or old or wise as a cold wall of ice.

I caught a fish though, which for most people is a fair trade for cold. It was small and of unknown variety, so I tossed it back into the waves and wondered how for it could swim, wondered if it would ever look up at my father through that cold, solid wall.