I grew up adoring my Dad. He was soft spoken and hard working. He always wore a plaid shirt whether it was flannel or not. Even in the Summer, he'd roll up his sleeves if it got warm. He came from the hot part of the states. Drove to our colder area to see the Ocean. He saw it and never went back.
I remember him fondly. He past away after a very long illness. He fought for what seemed like my whole life. When he went, he did it with such grace. To this day, I miss him. I miss talking to him.
One Summer, I went for a walk with him. We found a nice place by the river. Under the trees where the water ran wild. It was there that he taught me to fish. He told me all about it. I watched him put those cute bees on his hooks. He didn't catch much. I think he just liked the quiet and the possibility of it. I remember that day. I think of it often. It was so special to me. I remember walking back with the dust flying up from the rocky road. No one knew that we'd just had the time of my life. So fishing, nah, not for me but watching my Dad fish, yes.
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