We’d both been waiting. I don’t know for what.
I looked at Brittany. She looked at me. Then she looked up at the bank, at Mom.
“Mom,” Brittany said. “Come here. Please.”
Mom came out on the dock. Slowly. Like she wasn’t sure it would hold her.
She sat down between us. Not close. A little space on each side.
I pulled the tackle box over. Old green metal, rust around the hinges. I put my hand on the latch.
“It was Grandpa’s,” I told her. “Vern found it in the shed.”
Mom looked at it. Her mouth trembled.Track Pregnancy
“I know whose it is,” she said. “He had it when I was a girl.”
I opened the lid.
The top tray was full of what you’d expect. Hooks. Sinkers. A spool of line. A rusty pair of needle-nose pliers. A jar of salmon eggs from about 1998.
