Before an uncle of mine passed away
he gave me his old fishing hat.
The vintage smell of worn leather
filters through my nostrils
as I discreetly remember his life.

Together we would fish on the horizon of the Great Lakes,
gliding between their waves.
Enjoy the ascent of the early sunrise,
and the descent of the blissful sunset.
Each morning again
with the creation of chocolate chip pancakes.

Years later on the anniversary of his passing
as we hold hands in prayer for Thanksgiving,
I look up and grin,
glancing around the room to see if anyone notices, remembers,
but no one seems to be paying attention.
In the silence, I feel the sound of the tapping waves such like a heartbeat,
arcing the edge of his fishing boat, rippling onto the shore…
a compilation of sweet ebbs
that carried us across the crystal lakes.

When I got home that night from grandma’s,
I crave the feeling once more.
I pull the old fishing hat from my drawer, now dusted and decayed.
As I reach up to place it on my head,
the thick hand-crafted leather brushes past my nostrils.
Again I smell the memories that we shared;
rather this time I vividly remember the hat previously on his head,
bold and stiff in the wind of the omniscient lakes. 

Even today, as I only recall
very little of our time together,
my memory glints of his last cast that summer.
He didn’t catch anything,
but we sat there: waiting.
Throughout the day the hat would catch hold
of the wind’s strong currents,
his weak grip struggling on it’s worn creases--
Yet we continued to fish,
waiting for memories to prevail casted long ago.