Everyone looked at everyone else pleasantly, blinking and occasionally saying words.My mother tried to kindle the conversation, poking at decades-old embers.
Everyone looked at everyone else pleasantly, blinking and occasionally saying words.My mother tried to kindle the conversation, poking at decades-old embers.Tags: Problem Solving ExampleThesis On MicroencapsulationShort Essay On MarxismOpinion EssayLse Personal Statement Graduate AdmissionsFried Green Tomatos EssayCritical Thinking PracticeFormat In Research Paper
“They lived in Okinawa for years.” “Eddie was a pilot.” It was like cramming before visiting some bizarre country: their main exports, I assumed, were hard candy, corduroy, and judgment.Eddie looked at the boat, down at his GPS, and then back up at the boat. My father and I paused, looked at each other, and laughed. If that’s not what made me like him, it was his talent at fishing.“Now we’ll just drift across the top of them,” he would say, and every 10 minutes we pulled winter flounder and fluke up over the chrome guardrails and plopped them onto the boat’s gut-stained deck.As an awkward, hate-filled preteen, I found fishing to be the one hobby timeless and genuine enough to keep me marginally tethered to the world, like when a felon comes out of his cell to do watercolors. Eddie wore mud boots, a frumpy baseball cap, and a sagging orange jacket.I wore my best No Fear T-shirt and a bead necklace with enough black in it to still fit in with the Goth-lite look I was cultivating that summer. He looked like Walter Matthau doing an impression of Walter Matthau.This happened several times until, finally, we came to a place that looked like all the other water we had crossed.Except now, in the distance, sat a single boat, the only object visible anywhere.Long after everyone else got full, I kept taking her up on her offers of coffee cake and hot dogs.So we sat, me chewing and her staring, each of our hairstyles a variation on the bowl cut.So it would never rouse in me even the same species of emotion, the same gasped-at surprise of an aunt being whisked away in her early 60s by leukemia.The old man’s death, I’d subconsciously told myself, would be something closer to locking up a bar after a good night—a chore done in silence, but in the strange wake of the fun that preceded it.