My dad’s keychain was fish bait out of water, with resin scales, glass eyes, and chipped paint from years of the ins and outs of denim pockets, driving to ballparks, hardware stores, golf courses – but never fishing. That, he never taught me, but not for his lack of knowing. He had his fishing stories, voice flowing, then rippling when it spoke of loss; Grandpa passed, maybe, ten years ago now. Dad said I could have his tackle box, but that’s not really what I want. I want him to know he taught me everything one can learn from blackberry hued morning water and the delicacy of weighted lines without ever going fishing. I don’t know what the whirl of currents means or where to land the sinker when the water is cloudy, but I do know that this life is about respect, about patience. I know that the pond isn’t half empty but half full and that no matter how hard the fight or big the fish, sometimes, it’s right to just let him go.
