Posted by on Mar 24, 2011 in Stories | 0 comments

And don’t I wish to be me again, that hopeful little boy with his hook and tin of worms, climbing down the bank to the river, sliding in the mud, rushing toward the water. At the stream my palms are too sweaty to hold the hook and thread the worm. I see the rocks in front of me and hear the water eddy in a gurgled rush. My first cast is never the right one. I reel back in fast and get ready to send out another. I eye the rock whose backside I want to hit, where I want my worm to fall. The bass will be there in a slow fin. Placed well a fish will surely take it. Young minds never doubt. That comes later and with it a loss of color, as if the climb to the river doesn’t mean quite as much, the trees are hardly there, the gurgle not quite loud enough.