There should be a soundtrack. Something gentle. Like the dream I slip from into the quiet kitchen. Familiar as the backdoor my son and I ease through into the morning.
It would be more authentic if the truck were Grandpa's light blue Ford: white-wall tires, chrome knobs, squeaky vinyl seat-covers, the smell of hay. But we're squeezed together in the cab of my dad's Dodge just like we should be. Morning sagebrush and the breath of water rising from the creek smell just like they should.
We're in the Narrows, along Clear Creek, fishing poles in back, sun not yet risen above the canyon's edge. It would be more authentic if the worms were in an old tin can, some we'd dug beneath the moon, instead of picking up at the Flying U.
But still. What could be more beautiful than this morning?
He watches patiently the same water I watch when I'm not watching him.
There should be a soundtrack.
Something about how water flows. Around and through life's best-laid plans.
Something about coming of age, every day getting better and better. Something about beautiful, beautiful boy, morning, fish, life.