Whilst overcast Pennsylvania skies brood.
The white noise of the highway zones me out,
As I begin to revisit the past.
The land I once called home quietly soothes,
Maples, elms and spruces dot the modest
Mountains. The road gives way to rock outcrops.
The Gap nears and the mountains give way as
The Delaware rushes under the bridge.
I look down at the strong currents and try,
Instinctively, to find where we would cast.
My brother and I learned to fish from Dad.
We learned the trade with cone-shaped fishing reels,
Dexterity was quickly learned to hook
The wriggling worms dug up from our garden.
It was always a special day when we
Made the drive down Whipporwill Lane.
Past the pond where we learned to skate,
To the Waynesboro Reservoir water.
A clumsy cast into the manmade lake,
Rapt anticipation consumed our world.
Nothing mattered but bobber movement now.
A little dance, a short jerk, a silent pause,
Then it plunged! The race to land our fish began.
Lift the rod to set the hook like Dad taught.
Then quickly reel it in, almost there now.
Dad pulls up the line to show me the catch.
The luminous bluegill flaps in the air
Until Dad firmly grips it in his hands.
We smile, an involuntary reaction,
All of my troubles are forgotten now.
I want to reach out to hold this creature,
How could something so small behold such strength?
Is this really what strained the line and made
My stomach jump directly to my throat?
As Dad hands me the fish I feel it curl,
Flexing with all its might trying to leap
Back in the placid reservoir water.
We take one last look at the bluegill now,
Preparing to return it to its home.
I gently reach down and submerge my friend,
He floats for a moment, then, silently,
Darts away toward the rocks in the shade.
I feel a strong connection with nature
In those moments just after the release.
For a brief moment I am just present,
Reveling in the beauty all around.
The Mont Alto trees rustle in the breeze.
A faint trickle is heard from the spillway.
The hum of traffic does not exist here.
Standing on a boulder, the three of us
Cast in again, one sunnie happier.
Amazing how the simple things in life
Are what we carry with us to the end.
I used to think that memories were random.
Snapshots that stick with us for god-knows-why.
But now, I believe it’s not the events
That have meaning. It is who you are with
That make things worth remembering at all.
We walk back along the beaten dirt trail,
Each gripping a tackle box in our hands,
Trying to decide who caught the biggest.
Dad just listens with a contented smile,
And gently pulls us in a quick embrace.
It’s been decades since we fished those waters.
We’ve taken separate paths away from here,
But still like to talk about those serene
Pennsylvania nights at the reservoir.
So even if we did not know it then,
An arm around the shoulder means the world.
