Memorial Downpour

As the cold sweat beaded
along my brow,
I could tell daddy was smiling.
Earthworms caved up
from the damp soil,
each exposing their slick
and naked bodies
to the precipitation coming down.
Dad, staring down at his son,
watched as I plucked the soft dirt.
Tucking himself under the dripping willow,
I laced my coffee can with bait.
Memorial Day was our tradition.
Fishing for heavy carp and slippery sunfish
is what made that tradition
a holiday to us.
Father and Son.
Hook to handshake.
As the rain beat down,
my knees would cramp
between the worn summer dock.
As my fishing line spewed
magenta-colored saliva
from the salmon eggs on my tackle below,
I think of Dad.
Each tug from below, latching
onto the rusty hook I've tangled above,
I see my father's stare above my smile.
Memorial Day rain beats down on our reflections,
as it has every year since I was seven.
While the familiar tug from some life beneath
yanked at my arms like a ghost,
I let the line run free.
I feel even now as if the rain is to blame.
If by pulling up my prize,
I might not have that again.
If I caught what we set out to catch,
would daddy be there next Memorial Day
to watch me spinning lines into the rain.
Each year,
whether He knows it or not,
I purposely cut the fish loose under the sky.
These Memorial downpours remind me of dad.
When it rains heavy onto the Bowmar lake,
I think of fishing with dad
without an umbrella and
remember fishing with Him
as if he and I
were meant to be drenched,
as if God were fishing for us.