I Sat on the Bank of a Slow-moving River

I sat on the bank of a slow-moving river. It was a good-sized river, the water was cold, and if you followed it upstream far enough you would come to the mountain valley that fed it with its winter snow.

It was getting towards evening, but the sun had long disappeared behind the pine trees lining the river. The only sign left of it was an orange sky mixed with purple and deep red clouds.

I sat in the grass a few dozen yards from the road. The road led to a park I frequent and the park is connected to a highway that led you back into the city.

I held a small fishing pole and strummed the line. My eyes followed the line down into the water where it disappeared. I’ve fished this spot since I was a kid. My father used to bring me and my brother to the park where we’d spend weekends camping in the summer. We would hike the trails going into the woods in the hot afternoons, and spend our evenings right where I was sitting. Sometimes if we were lucky enough to catch something, we’d cook it for dinner that night.

I come here more often than I used to it seems. I need to. The city keeps growing and more concrete and steel is set down every day. More movement and more noise.

I felt a small tug on my line and gripped the pole between my hands, ready for the next one. In the back of my mind I heard my father telling me to be ready and yank hard as I could when the fish takes it.

I waited patiently. But the fish must have had better offerings than my bait.

I eased my grip on the pole and looked around me. I inhaled the sweet air, scented with pine and the freshness that comes with the cold. The light was fading and I could just start hearing the insects make their buzzing sounds. It was my cue that it was time to go.

I reeled in the line, stood up and starting walking to my truck. I looked back at the spot and imagined my brother and father sitting there on the bank. See y’all again soon, I thought.

 

 

Photo by Luca Bravo on Unsplash

 

 

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