In Florida the shells on the sand looked like constellations or craters on the moon. It was a cold blowy day, and my father taught me how to fish. The pier was wet cement, and barnacles grew on it and water splashed up. In the silver light we swooped up a flounder, and his skin was silver with white flecks to match the sky. I touched him, all cold and breathless, and we threw him back to the sea. I watched the fish swim away and I watched my father’s eyes watch the fish. We sat in silence, me and my Pops, and I wondered what he was thinking, and then thought, “nothing”, and I just sat next to him and his hand looked freckled and kind of weather-torn.
We sat like this for a long time, and the pier smelled like river rocks and brine, and we sat under the brine-y sideways sky in silence.
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