because whenever my father wanted to spend time with me, he would take me fishing – and, for some reason, going fishing was always treated in our house, like an act of rebellion against my mother – who never minded that I got dirty, or wore torn jeans. Sometimes, she would plan to come with us – though when she’d describe the fifty pound lunch she wanted to pack, or how she couldn’t stand the smell of frying fish in her kitchen, we would bolt out the back door, wave triumphantly from the car.
then, after a full day of fishing and a bucket full of catch, we would come home to disheartened Mother – who fried up the fish anyway, and watched us eat – her mouth, a thin, tight line. And we would laugh and joke, and I would enjoy the fact that I was on my father’s side, joining in on the ravings about the deliciousness of the fish, though not quite as good as the salmon berries we had picked and eaten for lunch.
but, the truth was, I found the fish quite bland and smelly. And the sight of my mother’s hurt made my heart lurch. For some reason, I was determined to pretend otherwise. At least, that’s how I’d like to remember it.