In our small aluminum boat by the shadow of a birch tree, Mom, in her tight dark curls, has to be sure and yell out at any friendly and waving fisherman, to be careful, and that they might get hooked if they don’t clear out of Dad’s way. Mom is like that and I think I can see it embarrassing Dad or maybe he thinks it’s funny because he laughs. He has a high and tight military haircut and his pressed shirt on. His eyes are pale blue like snow colors. Mom’s shoulders have burned the color of lobster while she worries about the mosquitoes on Dad, spraying him. And she worries that he hasn’t put enough sunscreen on, so she falls about him–adjusting his cap’s bill, or anything else also that falls under the scrutiny of her architect’s eyes. Since the accident mom feels she has to be loud and protective of us, her boys. But right then I’m grateful for the relief from her scrutiny. I pick my nose and flick the green bits into the water at the ducks. Dad is better with her, he touches her wrist sometimes. Like he is letting her know he sees her even if he can’t see her.
When Dad calls out to me he uses my long name and says, you’re going to help me catch the big ones right, Christian Phillip? And I say, yes, Sir. I pick up his ‘spinner’ from the bottom of the boat and walk toward him, even though I am sometimes afraid of those eyes. He holds my elbows in his hands and shows me to cast carefully, from the feel in my wrists and the sound of the water lapping off the sides of the boat, and all of the geese honking, rising up in a swell. Pull it back. Cast an arch. Listen for it. FDM.
El Golpe Avisa 