Fishing with my Dad off the Miami pier,
watching the silver lines
disappear against the shimmering blue,
waiting for that sudden pull,
the rod arching in the air
to signal: a catch! Something out there.
Not one bite.
Evening came, and my Dad
ambled over to the Cuban fishermen,
gabbed a bit, took
a few bills from his wallet,
and returned with two ten-pound bass
glimmering like treasure in the sun.
Back home, posing with our trophies,
our captain's hats cocked to one side,
sea monsters hoisted by their tails.
The camera snapped, a bright flash,
and the moment was saved.
That was the year I lost you, Dad.
Time escapes us. The photo darkens.
Nothing is spared. Yet
my hands are still reaching,
feeling for that sudden pull on the line -
a catch, a signal: something out there.