Fishing

My son took me fishing the other day…
I met him on a crystal blue lakeside, where the sun danced across the water like scattered diamonds. The fresh air smelled of pine and damp moss. A small sandy beach stretched along the shore; its serenity broken only by the faint creak of a rickety old boat dock swaying with the gentle ripples.

It had been a while since I last saw my son, and my heart ached with the weight of time lost. Yet, there he was — his familiar silhouette radiant against the backdrop of the lake lined with pine trees. A smile tugged at his lips when I asked him what he wanted to do. 

“Go fishing,” he said simply, holding up a tackle box. His eyes, the same warm hazel brown as ever, sparkled with seriousness and a touch of green as he added, “Wanna come, Mom?”

“I don’t have a fishing license, baby,” I replied, fearful I was thwarting his plans.

A crooked grin flashed across his face as he tilted his head, just as he always had when he thought I was being a tad ridiculous. “You don’t need one here,” he said, his voice tinged with a confidence that felt otherworldly.

He picked up the rods, and we began the slow walk to the water. His steps, once so quick, adjusted effortlessly to match my hesitant pace. Sunlight penetrated through towering pine trees, painting speckled golden patterns on the ground, while a soft, warm breeze tousled his thick brown hair. The cadenced crunch of our footsteps on grass filled the air as I glanced at the dock and an old rowboat anchored nearby. My face lit up. “Can we take that out?” I exclaimed, my voice bursting with excitement.

He nodded, and we climbed into the rowboat, its surface seasoned with scars of countless voyages. “I’ll row,” I insisted, gripping the worn oars, eager to ease 
his burden.

He shook his head gently, his gaze soft but determined. “No, Mom,” he said, his voice as steady as the lake around us. “You’re tired. You need to rest.” Without waiting for my usual protest, he removed the oars from my grasp and began rowing us out toward the middle of the lake.

The boat rocked gently beneath us as I fumbled with the fishing rod, chuckling at my own ineptitude. “I don’t know what to do now,” I admitted with a sheepish grin.

His face — a mixture of love and exaggerated disbelief — made my smile widen. “You take the bobber, Mom,” he teased, demonstrating with exaggerated patience, “and drop it in the water — like this.” He placed the bobber in the water with deliberate precision.

As he cast his gaze toward the shoreline, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place crossed his face. Apprehension? Caution? It disturbed me. “Danny, are you going to be in trouble for this?” I asked hesitantly, my voice trembling.

“No, Mom,” he murmured, leaning forward as the sun soaked his face in soft light. “You needed this. God knows you needed this.” And with gentleness, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead, his touch warm and filled with love.

And then I woke up — bolting upright, gasping for air. “Danny!” I screamed, the name ripping from my throat as I frantically looked around. The room was dark, and my blanket lay tangled around me like a trap. Danny’s flannel shirt, the one I clung to every night, was still beside me, worn and faded from my desperate grip. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath.

Reality crashed over me with an unforgiving weight: My son was dead. He had been gone for over a month now. The raw, hollow ache of his absence grew fresh in my chest, threatening to consume me all over again.

But as the silence of the room enveloped me, I clung to the certainty that comforted me, even in my grief. As sure as I knew I had been his mom for 24 years, I knew he had just taken me fishing.

“The sun soaked his face in soft light. ‘You needed this. God knows you needed this.’ And with gentleness, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead, his touch warm and filled with love.”

“I clung to the certainty that comforted me, even in my grief. As sure as I knew I had been his mom for 24 years, I knew he had just taken me fishing.” 

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PHOTOS:  TAPS Archives; Tricia Redmond