The Pull

Fishing with my Dad off the Miami pier,

watching the silver lines

disappear against the shimmering blue,

waiting for that sudden pull,

the rod arching in the air

to signal: a catch! Something out there.

Waiting ...

Not one bite.

Evening came, and my Dad

ambled over to the Cuban fishermen,

gabbed a bit, took

a few bills from his wallet,

and returned with two ten-pound bass

glimmering like treasure in the sun.

Back home, posing with our trophies,

our captain's hats cocked to one side,

sea monsters hoisted by their tails.

The camera snapped, a bright flash,

and the moment was saved.

That was the year I lost you, Dad.

Time escapes us. The photo darkens.

Nothing is spared. Yet

my hands are still reaching,

feeling for that sudden pull on the line -

a catch, a signal: something out there.