It wasn’t that we’d had a fight. We’d never fought. That was the thing.
We just didn’t know how to talk to each other anymore.
She wrote back that night. One word.
Okay.
Chapter Six: The Tackle Box
Saturday was a spring evening. The second week of April.
Golden light on the water. Not a breath of wind. The pond was perfectly still, like a mirror, with the
cottonwood leafing out on the north bank and its reflection hanging upside down in the water.
The cattails I’d planted were coming up green. Little spears poking out of the mud. A redwing blackbird was sitting on one of the old stalks at the dam end, singing.Identify Plants
I sat at the end of the new dock in my green flannel and a ball cap. My boots hanging over the edge. Grandpa’s cane pole across my lap.
