My son headed off with his other parent after soccer this morning.

So, I have a combo of a dull melancholy, a surplus of time, and a full pint of Guinness on my hands.

Consider yourself seated next to me at the pub.

This is your chance to move quietly away before I go on.

1/

Still here. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

This is likely to get more sentimental than a Hallmark Christmas movie. I will offer no apology for that.

My son and I went fishing this week. It was the latest installment of a tradition dating back to when he was six.

2/

I have written about this before.

I cherish this outing. It is loaded with history and meaning for me.

It is a fleeting annual opportunity to add one small golden row to the tapestry of my son’s childhood.

It isn’t a fishing trip as much as it is a day of little rituals.

3/

I have a drawerful of traditions with my son.

Each is a touchstone. A fragment of rock I plucked first from rough sea and then polished smooth by endlessly tracing my thumb across its surface.

Most years, I would tell this story through that lens: the keeping of tradition.

4/

This year’s edition is settling on me differently though even though we did all of the usual things.

We overpacked a cooler with a surplus of drinks.

We tucked a little candy in the backpack.

We stopped at the same old country grocery for fried chicken.

5/

And then we did some fishing.

It was a glorious weather day. The bluest of skies. Warm as early summer even in late April.

We fished in our shirtsleeves.

Most years, my son would amble off to tromp around in the creek looking for salamanders or crayfish.

6/

Instead, we stayed together and “fished as a team.”

That’s code. It’s our personal shorthand for fishing with only one rod.

It dates back to when he was little-little and I’d bait, cast, set the hook and hand over the rod for the reel-in.

7/

My son is great with a spinning rod. He always has been. He doesn’t need my help - and he hasn’t in years.

I packed four rods in the car. We carried two to the spot where we fished.

We largely fished with one.

8/

In part, that is because it has never been about the fishing.

It has never been about the fish.

It has always been about the fun of the day together - the fun of all the little pieces that add up to make it special.

9/

This year, it was about a father and his teenage son fishing some, talking, happy to take our time about it.

My son and I have an easy peace in our relationship.

I have earned that. I have carved it out of hard stone with will and intention and labor.

10/

Never before have I so fully realized just how much this trip serves for me as an annual window into what that work has sown.

After seasons in the sun, what have I grown?

11/

I have a picture of my son at that same lakeside. He is looking back at me over his shoulder in the last light of a dusk fading to dark.

In the water is a light-up bobber. Beneath it, two feet of line and a bare hook.

12/

We had stopped at the lake on “the way home” from a water park.

It was his idea. We had no chance of catching a fish. We didn’t even have bait. It was just an excuse to elongate the day.

And so we did.

13/

We just sat on the bank in the last light of August and talked.

I told him how lucky I was to have a son who I not only loved but also liked.

That lake is where I see our reflection. I never fully realized that.

14/

It is where, for those few hours, I step back from the role of teacher, caregiver, protector and just bask fully in the warmth of being a father to a son who I am close with...

15/

How that closeness is reflected back to me changes every year.

This year, it took the shape of my teenage son and I casually fishing together as a team, talking, eating fried chicken, and then pulling cold root beers from the cooler for the drive home.

16/

These trips are snapshots.

From this year’s to the one I took years ago - my little boy, sitting on the bank at dusk, looking back at me over his shoulder - I have loved them all.

I have loved them all.

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