I Remember Lake St. Mary's

I remember the salt-coated, fishy lake smell. I remember the rumble of the jet skis as they were revved up. The flicker of the nighttime bonfires, the onion-y taste of Aunt Eva's homemade chip dip. I remember golf-cart rides. I remember the all-encompassing warmth of the sun if I laid on the back seat of the pontoon, that could be found floating in front of the A-frame lake house that matched the sky on a clear day.

I remember seeing him in the distance, down the dock. Leaning back in a plastic, uncomfortable chair, he looked perfectly content - just becasue of the fishing pole resting up against the arm of the chair. So many times I watched his shaky hands reach for bait and attach it to the string. So many times I begged my aunt for my own fishing pole to hold steady next to him, stand next to him - barely tall enough to reach the trucker's hat covering his gray hair. 

So few times I actually caught something. He congratulated me, but made me throw it back, the slippery fish wriggling out of my hands as soon as it got a whiff of the lake again. So many times I wondered why we had to throw them back to the water. That day, I remembered all of this as we sprinkled his ashes into the same lake, back with the fish he taught me how to catch, so long ago.

Note: I know I'm a little late posting this one - but I figured I would now and dedicate it to my Grandpa Marlin. His birthday was this past Monday, Jan. 27th. :)