Hood waded up behind him and took his father’s hands and started the old motion that Douglas had shown him, the rod tip held high and the wrist firm and the elbow forming a fulcrum and the left hand feeding line or hauling it tight. It was an easy rhythm, and up this close Hood could smell his father’s aging body and the after-shave he’d used his whole life, and he could feel the loose coolness of his skin and the lightness of his bones and the reluctant machinery of his joints.

Douglas shrugged him off with an obscenity and Hood waded toward the bank so he could watch.

His father looked at him, then took up the cast again, and Hood watched the white fly line loop back and forth overhead in increasing lengths until it shot forward straight and settled and a silky filament unfurled at the last instant, placing the tiny fly at the head of the riffle.

His father mended the line then smiled at Hood with joy and the memory of joy.

Standing where this river briefly intersected time, Hood believed that all on Earth was forgiven.

He smiled back.

T Jefferson Parker