The Fishing Trip

Journal

My dad doesn't remember my name most days. But he remembers this lake.

He taught me to fish on this lake when I was six. 'Patience, son. The fish can tell when you're in a hurry.'

Alzheimer's took the names first. Then the dates. Then, last winter, my name.

Then his line went tight. And for a second — just a second — his eyes cleared. 'That's a big one, son. Reel it in slow.'

I'd had a cap made for him — his initials, the way he used to sign his tackle box. He wore it all day. He kept touching the letters.

We caught three. He told the same story twice and I laughed twice. It was the best afternoon in years.

On the way home, he fell asleep in the boat. And as I rowed, he mumbled, 'Good day, son.' He remembered. For one day, he remembered.

He may not remember tomorrow. But the lake remembers. And so do I.