That summer, when I was eight,
My friend and I went fishing every day.
We’d bring home flounder, clean it,
Then my mom or dad would cook it.
It was good —
He moved away that fall, and I –
I never really fished ever again;
At least, not as a child, like I had.
I felt so grown-up catching food to eat;
And it was good —
So why then did I go a different way?
I know back then that drawing was my love,
As music later was – and that love stuck –
But I lost something, always there inside,
And doing things impractical
Although still good —
If I could go back
I’d catch one more fish
Once more to see my father’s eyes of pride
To see his unathletic son do something
To show that he might one day know
That bringing home food
Is an honorable thing
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Childhood Revisited.”