I took him fishing. He used to enjoy that. There, he sat on the river bank casting his line into the muddy water. A can of Pepsi in a holder on his folding chair. 

Do you remember when we used to fish? Dad  nodded. He pulled his line a little tighter.

Yeah. He said. We rarely caught anything when we moved north.

That’s right, I told him. In Arkansas, we got those big catfish and bass. Few  buffalo, too. But they were always so boney.

Must have been a million bones in those dudes. You could pick your teeth with them. He took a sip of his cold drink and reeled his line in.

Yeah.

I miss your mother.

I know. I know.

You never loved her. He cast  back out into the Kankakee.

What do you mean?

I could always tell. That’s why you left home so young.

Don’t start, Dad.

It’s true.

You’re all about truth, are you?

Let’s just fish. Shouldn’t have brought it up.

There was silence between us for a long time. An hour of quiet. Squirrels jumped out of trees. Birds flew over. Storm clouds approached.

We better get going, Dad.

I suppose so.

We did not talk on the ride back to town. I opened the door for him, and he got out, not saying a word. Fell asleep in the recliner. I placed a blanket over him and turned out the light.

He never woke up.