I grew up fishing with my dad. We’d take off on Sunday adventures, past Do Not Enter signs and No Trespassing warnings. I thought we were renegades. Ducking under fences and crawling on our bellies under thickets. All to find the perfect spot. The magical place where we never spoke. Standing side by side, silently, listening to the frogs and the grasshoppers landing.
Long after dark, I’d return home with hundreds of mosquito bites, skinned knees, and mud streaked cheeks. And then, together, we’d search for night crawlers in the front yard. Flashlight in one hand, a small metal bucket swinging in the other.
My Mother hated how we stored our worms in the bottom shelf of the fridge next to the mayonnaise. But each morning I’d check, and they were always still there. Squirming and wriggling in the soil.
Sometimes I have this profound but gentle knowing in my heart that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Mistakes and stumbles and all.
This past weekend, witnessing the sun sinking below the sea on the dock where Genevieve and Ed laughed and loved, and fished, I knew.
The breeze. The smell of mud and sea grass. The renewal of hope.