Fishing with Daddy

It’s all there in the disappearing light:
the silvery fish flitting through the water,
the sweat shining on his muscled arms, Daddy rowing
the boat through the lake sunspots, sparkling
like someone had thrown fistfuls of diamonds,
the clear, clean smell of water and weeds,
bare arms and legs, bronzing in the noonday sun,
my bright red toenails that Mother painted, matched
to hers, the oars zigzagging through the water,
glint of light shining from the side
where he threw in the line, pulling it back,
occasionally lifting a glistening fish from the water,
sliding it in the pail, and digging in the paper cup
for another worm to stab with the hook,
my seven-year-old voice growing more petulant
asking when we could go home, when could I go
to the bathroom, when could I swim, hungry Daddy,
hungry, as he pulled anchor returning to shore,
handing the pail of fish over to Gram and me
back to Mother.