After your dad’s funeral, the responsibility of cleaning out the old house falls to you. You are picking through the garage when, under a pile of rusty rods and reels covered in a considerable cloud of cobwebs, you find your old tackle box.
This brings back memories, you think as your fingers clench tightly the tiny plastic Plano box.
Memories like the time dad pushed you off the dock and held your head underwater for a full minute, claiming you “have to learn to die like a fish before you could fish as a human.”
Dad was a fucking asshole.