Some memories are more like apparitions lingering in the corners of my mind, all a bit transparent and hazy*.
There was the flurry of activity that surrounds any kind of departure. Hugs and goodbyes to my mom and grandmother with, I believe, the promise to cook anything we returned with. Sitting on the banks of Lake Nasworthy, fishing pole in hand, I remember the waiting, the waiting and the worms. Perhaps there was conversation, adolescent rambling on my part, but those are the details that have been wiped clean. Left in its wake is simply the feeling of sharing a moment with someone you love, that moment where they share with you something they enjoy. There was the fish, small and covered in scales, not worthy of a meal but destined to become one. My grandmother, bless her heart, may never have cleaned a fish in her life, but she tried. Two bites. That's how long it took for me to slowly pull a fish bone out of my mouth and the number of bites for me process how wrong the taste was. I'll never know if the fault lay with my grandmother or the fish, but to this day, I don't eat much seafood.
*Have you seen Stories We Tell? Really good! I'll write a bit about it next month, but one of the themes very much touches on this idea.