Terri L. French
Lured
My Dad took me ice fishing once, when mom left me in his care for the day. I much preferred staying inside with my books and Easy-Bake oven. But, he wasn’t about to let a babysitting gig with Suzy Homemaker deter him from his beloved winter pastime and promised me a candy bar afterwards. So, there I was decked out in my seldom worn snowmobile suit and clunky pac boots, trudging behind my father onto the ice of Lake St. Clair. Dad spud the hole, readied our lines and upturned a 5-gallon plastic bucket for me to sit on. We sat for what seemed like hours in the freezing cold and only had a few perch to show for it.
watching for bones
a plate of white bread
on the table
After fishing, dad stopped by Pete’s Coney Island for lunch. Here’s the thing about coneys—I don’t like hot dogs, can’t stand chili, loathe mustard and barely tolerate onions—that pretty much left the bun. But Dad assured me that coneys were manna from heaven and any child of his would love them. I ate every last bite and knew better than to complain. As promised, when we got in the truck, he dug a Snickers out of the glove compartment.
a can of sardines
and some soda crackers—
last supper
About the Author
Terri L. French is a poet/writer and retired massage therapist. For the past four and a half years, she and her husband, Ray, have enjoyed the nomadic life of full-time RVers and are now building their forever home on a mountain in Huntsville, Alabama. Her newest book of haibun is kaleidoscope dream (Red Moon Press).