father and son

Out on the lake, following a night of vicious storms that drove the son into the safe haven under the cover of his father’s bed, with nary a pebble to cause a ripple, the young son closed his eyes for a moment thinking the summer was going to last a thousand Junes. The slight breeze off the lake carried the smell of pine. Yet, the father saw a ripple of sullenness in his son's face as the empty fish pole slacked motionless in the boy’s hands.
‘Son, did I ever tell you the time I was fishing with Ernie in this very boat and she sprung a leak?’
‘No, Pa, what happened?’, the son said, leaning forward.
‘I says I says Ernie, quick drill another hole to let the water out before we sink, I says.’
Somewhere, in that split second, a tree fell in silence.
‘Oh, Paaaa.’

In the woods, leaning against an uncomfortable fallen tree, the father taught the son to prepare the fish for the clean black skillet. Cleaning fish seemed silent to the son, unlike the sounds of his mother in the kitchen, the knife slicing through hard butter and clinking against the porcelain dish, or the steady beat of chopping cool cucumbers on the countertop. The son imitated his father and the father smiled his approval. The boy sleeved the knife into the hard brittle leather and handed it to his father.
‘No, son. Keep it. It’s yours now.’

In the after hours, in between the clean sheets, the son awakened for a moment by the light of the sleepless smile of a white moon, and thought of the sinking boat and Ernie and giggled. The father had cast a line in the son’s memory and he could always reel it in later if he needed.