He unties the pontoon boat my brother built and pushes out from the dock. Starts the 9-horse and heads across the lake to the little bay. There’s barely a ripple on the water and the sun is about forty minutes from setting. A hint of red in the sky. He’s sixty and learned recently that he has three years left. No ifs, ands or buts about it.
He doesn’t resist, but does hope. You never know.
He anchors off the point, puts a minnow on his hook and casts just inside the weeds. A couple of Coors Light sit on ice in the cooler. Silver bullets. My dad cracks one open and sets his lawnchair at the front of the boat. Across the lake a light goes on in the camp. He feels a tug on the line.
Hicks Lake, 1990