Fishing

My uncle takes me fishing. I know nothing about fishing. I sit on a wooden bench and watch him set up his gear. Four rods lined up on a narrow dock, barely big enough for the two of us. Fishing lines arching across the water until they eventually disappear under the surface, the points of incision marked by colourful floats. These splashes of colour feel out of place against the canvas of the lake, seemingly static and still. 

Stillness of a mellow August day washes over my body. The sun makes brief appearances through ragged tears between clouds on its slow but steady descent toward the horizon. Eventually, it plunges into the lake and sinks to the bottom. Clouds hold on to the last drops of colour as it slowly drips into the water. Night seeps in along the edges, impatient to gobble up the light, refusing to wait.  

Waiting permeates the space around us, stretches it in every direction. My uncle fills it with stories. About the village where he grew up – a tiny settlement in the west of Ukraine, an intersection of two dirt roads lined with houses, wrapped in a tight hug of a dense forest. It used to be the site of my childhood summer adventures. It remains the place I always carry with me. I take his stories and weave them together with my own memories into a safety blanket. I wrap it tightly around me to shield against the chill wafting through the air. 

Air-raid sirens punctuate the night. They come in sets of three or more. Long signals to announce the beginning of an attack. Short ones declaring “all clear.” I imagine casting a fishing rod across the sky to catch the carriers of death and destruction on the other side of the country. The sirens keep screeching until we lose count. Their blaring shatters the inky blue dome into millions of shards. Pointy and sharp, they rip the fabric of the night. 

Nightingales’ song rolls across the lake, wave upon jubilant wave. After a few hours, we pack the gear and head home. We don’t catch anything that night.