One More Day

Reading and listening to music was and still is two of my all time favorite things to do. Fishing was one of my father’s favorite things, and talking is one of my mother’s all time favorite things.

We were able to bring our favorite things together on family outings to the lake on the 4th of July. I loved sitting by the water in a quiet, peaceful spot contentedly reading a book and listening to music while my father and grandmother fished, my brothers ran around playing, and my mother walked the lake talking. Those were some of the best times.

As we grew older the fishing trips became fewer and so did the family members. My grandmother passed away and my brothers found other things to do. Occasionally, my parents and I continued the trips; my father fishing, my mother talking, and me—always looking for a quiet spot to read with my music. We were eventually joined by the first grandchild in the family who replaced my brothers running around playing.

I remember one particular trip where my father was in a very talkative mood giving advice on the best way to catch a fish, my nephew was replicating my brothers, my mother was napping, and I had a book with a very interesting plot. Listening to fishing techniques was interfering with the intricate details surrounding the mystery my characters were involved in. Fortunately, my nephew happened along with his fishing pole and a listening ear giving me a chance to escape to another quiet spot and become absorbed once again in my book without interruptions.

That trip is now a cherished memory. One thing etched in my mind is the beauty of the lake and the many different spots to sit and commune with nature, contemplating how the mystery in the book would be solved as jazz tunes permeated my soul. The memory of it came back to me as I watched Oprah asking people if they could spend one more day with someone, who would it be and what would they do.

My answer: My dad—and we would go fishing. Only this time, instead of moving to a quiet spot to read, I would move closer to him, put down my book, turn off my music—and listen. Then, I would pick up a fishing pole, stand beside him—and fish.

I always become pensive when I hear Luther Vandross’ song, Dance With My Father, tears either fall from my eyes or surround my heart. How I wish I could recreate that moment in time and fish with my father.