Heaven
“Dad,” I said when I was eight, “what do you think heaven’s
like?’
He was sitting on the porch of the shack, trimming his
fingernails, eyes half shut, listening to the river sliding along, just below
us. He had just finished re-spooling a reel for my new pole and before that, he
had cleaned it, taking it apart and rubbing each piece in a gasoline soaked
rag. The Cub game was on, but I knew I was the only one paying attention enough
to know the score: Cubs 4, Dodgers 2, 7th inning, Dodgers at bat.
I asked him again in a louder voice. He looked up.
“What did you say?”
“What’s heaven like, Dad?” I said again.
He wiped the nail shavings from his lap, picked up the clean
reel and screwed it into my rod’s reel holder, threading the line through the guides.
He tied on a swivel, bent out its pin and slipped it into the top guide on the
rod and tightened the line.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Heaven! Let’s go fishing.”
