The Lake

The sun hadn't risen yet and already I felt the day slipping through my fingers. I looked forward to this every year and knew that this would be my last trip. Fishing was the one thing that my father and I shared. We spent a weekend every year at the lake, Dad, and my younger twin brothers, Joe and Mark. This year my Uncle Jonas joined us. He knew that he would be needed by us all.

Dad and I started our yearly fishing trip right after my sixth birthday. Dad's special gift to me that year had been a real fishing pole, just like his. He had picked out a wood pole painted a bright red because he remembered that was my favorite color. As his only child for twelve years, Dad tended to give me gifts that made me think he had wished for a boy. By the time the twins arrived our annual weekend was a tradition. Mom worried before that first trip, but Dad assured her we would be fine. Turned out he was right, I loved camping and thought of sleeping in a tent as a quality vacation.

I remember how excited I felt as we packed everything in the truck and prepared to leave for the lake. Mom took our picture, posed in front of Dad's truck, with me wearing my new fisherman hat and a plaid shirt. I still have that photo, a black and white print with crinkly edges, tucked into my jewelry box. The sight of my six -year- old self in a too big, floppy, tan hat, with Dad wearing one to match always brought a smile to my face.

Once we arrived and set up camp, it was time to get down to the business of fishing. Sitting on the dock, hooks baited with Velveeta Cheese (Dad claimed the fish loved it), we waited. Dad smoked a cigarette, the slight breeze from the lake causing the smoke to float gently away. He drew his line in occasionally and recast, seeking to find the elusive 'hole' where the fish were hiding. The dock shifted under us as the breeze danced across the lake.

I squirmed a bit, trying to be quiet and kept looking at him to make sure I was doing it right. Making Dad proud of my fishing skills was important to me. I still wasn't sure about the whole cheese thing, but I trusted my dad. The shoreline stretched away from us while we sat on the wooden dock, a soft blanket to protect me from any splinters. I shivered a bit until I felt a tug.

Even now, I clearly remember the feeling when the pole jerked in my hands the first time. Startled by the reel as it spun out, I looked up at Dad. He reached over and placed his hands over mine and showed me how to bring in my catch. Turn the reel, hold it still and pull back with the pole. I know that it wasn't much of a battle, but to my six- year- old self, it was incredible. Finally, I stood on the dock, a ten inch fish held high, wearing my floppy hat and the sun in my eyes, with a grin so large you could almost hear it. Dad snapped a picture that he still has in a frame on the mantle at home.

This morning is different, we weren't alone here and I wasn't smiling or fishing. As I made my way slowly to the camp fire, I saw Dad standing at the edge of the lake, his head thrown back watching while the light of the stars was overcome by the rising sun. When he turned to me I could tell by the pain that flashed across his face his thoughts were of Mom. His expression became so familiar. I knew what I had to say would only engrave it further.

"Dad, can I talk to you?" I asked while I walked toward him.

With a nod, he started walking toward the dock.

Side by side we walked, not touching, sharing the same space, but apart. It hadn't always been like this; growing up Dad had showed his affection with hugs and hand holding, but once the boys came, it was different. I'm not sure why, but I couldn't remember the last hug we shared. By the time I noticed, it was too late to go back.

When we reached the dock, we both sat at the edge, dangling our feet in the crisp, cool water, feeling the goose bumps creep up our legs and when we both shivered, we looked at each other and laughed. That was something we never lost, the ability to laugh together. With a smile, I reached out and very carefully took his hands and held them in mine.

"Dad, I have breast cancer like Mom."

Without a word, Dad put his arm around my shoulders, leaned his head against mine, hugged me and started to sob. We sat together and watched the sun finish rising. When we stood up to walk back, he reached out and held my hand.

Maybe it wasn't too late after all.

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