A Fishing Tale
By Bob Liddil
“Dad,
do you think there is such a thing as angels?”Marty’s hat perched crookedly on his head and an unruly shock of auburn hair peeked out from under.
“Your mother believes you are an angel, son.” Big Dan answered with a wink, “but you and me know pretty much different don’t we?”
“Dad! I’m being serious. Is there such a thing as angels?”
Big Dan studied the boy for a moment before answering. “I reckon there could be angels, Marty. The Bible says so. Why do you ask, son?”
“Can you keep a secret, Dad?” There was a breathless urgency to his voice.
“You know I can, son.” Big Dan replied. “I never told your mother about us fishing down by this river did I? I never said a word.”
“I can see angels, dad.” Marty said. “I can see their wings and I can see them walking around town. Sometimes they fly too.”
“That’s pretty interesting, son.” Big Dan said. “Do they wear white robes, like in the pictures?”
“Sometimes they do,” said Marty. “And sometimes they wear blue jeans and fishin’ shirts.”
Big Dan chuckled. “Well it figures, son that angels would like to fish. Fishing sure is heaven to me.”
Marty laughed aloud. He wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes in sheer enjoyment of the moment.
The bobber attached to the line on Big Dan’s pole moved ever so slightly. A circle of ripples moved away from the red and white floater.
“Dad, you’re getting a bite,” exclaimed Marty.
“Not yet, son. He’s just giving that worm a little look.”
“I bet he’s a big one, Dad.” Marty said, more seriously.
The bobber disappeared entirely and the line tightened. Big Dan’s pole bent almost double from the torque.
“It’s a big ‘un, Dad! It’s a big ‘un!” Marty shouted.
Then the line went completely slack and the pole sprung back, its tension released. Up popped the red and white floater.
Big Dan chuckled quietly, sighed, and then pulled in his line. The bait was gone. The hook was bent almost straight. There was nothing more to do but tie a new one. He reached for his pocketknife.
“I’m gonna have to go soon, dad.” Marty said seriously.
“I know that son,” Big Dan said gently. “I wish you could stay longer.”
“This really is my favorite place.” Marty said, then pointed toward a half sunken log. “Look Dad, there’s that ol’ snappin’ turtle that bent your hook.”
Big Dan smiled without looking up from tying the new hook. This was always the worst moment of his fishing afternoon.
“Can you really see angels, son?” he asked, tears beginning to form in his eyes.
“Sure I can, Dad.” Marty’s voice was hollow now, and had a bit of an echo to it.
“I love you, son.” Big Dan said. He tossed the bobber back into the river, a freshly baited hook attached, as the spirit of his first-born son faded from his view. “See you, Marty.”