Tackle Box

The summer I was 8 I received

the best gift of my life.

Fishing lures.

You know the kind:

neon, plastic, ugly.

I woke up one sticky morning

and on my dresser

was a whole box.

Neon green and yellow

plastic...ugly.

No bow, no note,

just a little box of

fishing lures,

sitting next to my

sparkle nail polish

and a Barbie hairbrush.

I begged my father that

spring to take me fishing,

like he had every year with my

brother since practically birth.

Finally, I got a curt 'ok'

and I ran to the house,

as he turned back to pruning

Mom's wild rose bushes.

The day came and I

rose and beat the sun,

snagging my brother's

worn Sox cap and fishing rod.

Dad was actually smiling with his teeth

as we pulled up to the lake

and he grabbed a plastic white tub

out of the cooler.

I had my hook ready

and he peeled back the lid.

Pinched between two fingers,

a living, squirming thing.

I swallowed so hard

and held open my palms.

He silently dropped it into

my cradled hands.

I knew I had to kill it,

this panicked, squirming life.

I bit my tongue and wedged

it onto the hook, but

turned away so my father

wouldn't see my tears.

We fished.

I tried to talk about the weather

and my limited knowledge

about cars, baseball, politics.

I clutched the rod and it

shuddered in my

white-knuckled hands.

My father said nothing.

On the ride home from the lake

I thought about the worm.

I killed it, and now I was going to hell.

We didn't catch any fish

despite our sacrificial slaughters.

My cheeks burned.

I was not a boy.

I did not know about NASCAR

I did not know about grilling

and I did not anything about fishing.

Mom promised that he loved me,

but what good was a daughter

to a man who didn't understand

the importance of

sleepovers, two-piece bathing suits

or Aaron Carter? What is a daughter

worth to a man like that?

The tackle box

of neon, plastic, ugly

fishing lures

had the answer.

A daughter

is worth

a lot.