My father, on Earth, fished a lot. I would go with him. There was a river on our land on Earth. I made myself a pole out of a young maple branch and wax-coated string. I told my father I was going fishing by myself. I tied a hook and a red and white buoy to the string. I put a worm on the hook. My father tried to help me, but I made it all myself. I walked to the bank of the river and held my pole over the river. The worm fell into the river immediately. I had draped it around the hook. I didn't want to hurt it. It didn't matter. I sat there for an hour. I was calm. Content. I sang songs to myself like my father did. He sang so softly that I never heard the words. I made them up as I went. Geese flew overhead. The river was my rhythm.

I saw a fish on the river bed. I didn't expect it. I think it must have been a bottom feeder. All I remember is that it was brown. My hands shook as I held the pole so the string dropped above the fish's head. The byoy held the hook too high. I started shaking the pole to get the fish's attention. The buoy moved. The fish stayed in place. It moved its fins slowly.

My heart began to move inside of me. I remember that I had to go pee very badly. I moved down the bank and tried to get the hook in front of the fish's eyes. I thought that fish would bite hooks. I thought the worm was for decoration.

I started to hop nervously. I was sure that any minute the fish would swim away. I became frantic. I didn't know what to do, so I just held the pole over the water, the waxstring made a dimple in the soft current of the river. I was in agony. I was panting. I decided to try to put the pole in the water, but the buoy held the hook in the same place, a foot above the fish's head. And the fish stayed there, in the same place, undulating.

I stayed there, hopping, wishing I could pee, terrified that the fish would swim away. My heart was jumping all around inside of me. It was hot, and it itched. I swear it wanted to jump out of my body and tear in half.

Finally, frantically, I tried to poke the fish with my pole. It darted away in a cloud of silt. I thought that anything inside of me that was in place had fallen. I sat down and cried. I stood up, stared at the river with growing determination and anger and threw my fishing pole into the river. I turned around and ran home.

I remember my father holding me in his arms. He was always warm. When he held me, everything that was wrong, everything that fell apart, was in its right place.