Remembering Antonio (example memory)

Antonio Rivera fished the same stretch of lake every Sunday morning for forty years. He rarely caught anything worth keeping, which he said was never the point. He’d leave before sunrise with a thermos, a folding chair, and a radio he never turned on, and come home smelling like lake water and coffee, quietly satisfied.

He died eleven Novembers ago, and every year we drive out to that same spot, set up folding chairs — one of them always empty — and tell his stories. Walter brings the thermos. Somebody always forgets the bait. This year Rachel came along, five months pregnant and pretending she wasn’t tired, and Walter looked at her and said, “Then that’s your job now: teach him to be patient.”

The lake was quiet. We stayed until the light changed. It felt like he’d have approved.