usually used. Vern took one look at her and went to get another bucket from his truck.
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She didn’t say much. Neither did we. We fished. The bobbers sat on the still water, red and white.
Around sunset, Brittany’s bobber went under.
“Brit!” I said. “Brit, you’ve got one!”
She yanked the cane pole up. A bluegill came flying out of the water. Fat and flapping, gold and green in the evening light. It swung in a big arc over the dock and landed in my lap.
Brittany screamed. I screamed. Vern laughed so hard he almost fell off his bucket.
And on the bank, my mother laughed. A real laugh. I hadn’t heard it in two years.Track Pregnancy
Then I remembered the tackle box.
It was still sitting on the dock, where Vern set it down that first Saturday in April. I’d brought it back every Sunday since. I hadn’t opened it. Neither had Brittany.
