There should be a soundtrack. Something gentle. Like the dream I slip from into the quiet kitchen. Familiar as the backdoor my son and I ease through into the morning.
It would be more authentic if the truck were Grandpa's light blue Ford: white-wall tires, chrome knobs, squeaky vinyl seat-covers, the smell of hay. But we're squeezed together in the cab of my dad's Dodge just like we should be. Morning sagebrush and the breath of water rising from the creek smell just like they should.
We're in the Narrows, along Clear Creek, fishing poles in back, sun not yet risen above the canyon's edge. It would be more authentic if the worms were in an old tin can, some we'd dug beneath the moon, instead of picking up at the Flying U.
But still. What could be more beautiful than this morning?
There should be a soundtrack.
YoungSon settles in.
I almost catch one, see it rising against the current, dark locus of movement and will. But I'd been squeamish, threading the worm. And the fish that was not to be my fish nibbles a risky breakfast and breaks away.
I almost catch one, see it rising against the current, dark locus of movement and will. But I'd been squeamish, threading the worm. And the fish that was not to be my fish nibbles a risky breakfast and breaks away.
YoungSon catches his first fish. Then another, matching his grandpa, my dad, fish for fish.
That it would be more authentic if I were worried about doing it right, about winning here or failing, is just one more sweet thing about having come of age. Being old enough to know it's enough to have a reason to sit here in early morning by the side of this stream. This place I dreamed once was the sister I wished for (how was that possible?) the only girl amidst my bouncing bunch of brothers.
That it would be more authentic if I were worried about doing it right, about winning here or failing, is just one more sweet thing about having come of age. Being old enough to know it's enough to have a reason to sit here in early morning by the side of this stream. This place I dreamed once was the sister I wished for (how was that possible?) the only girl amidst my bouncing bunch of brothers.
Here I am, the only girl again. But my son now, not my brother, catches the fish I don't, each silvery catch an iridescent, dotted wonder. We laugh into each other's faces.
What could be more beautiful than this first catch?
He watches patiently the same water I watch when I'm not watching him.
There should be a soundtrack.
Something about how water flows. Around and through life's best-laid plans.
Something about coming of age, every day getting better and better. Something about beautiful, beautiful boy, morning, fish, life.
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