Yellow (editing)

Plenty of Fish I Can't See

In the fourth grade, Barry told me that the world spun in a delicate manner; despite how sturdy the ground seemed to feel beneath our feet. He explained how one tiny action we do could change our life and lives of others – of course that was when he reminded me about the fact that I could do amazing things if I strived to be a Great Blind One like Stevie Wonder (The Greatest Great Blind One). He told me that everything always has a reason to exist, no matter how terrible it may seem, and that everything happens because it is a part of a plan laid out for your life. Anyway, his point was pretty much that every blade of grass on earth had a purpose.

And I guess a lot of things happened because my dad and I didn't go fishing in the great outdoors at 5 A.M. on Sunday. In fact, we did something even worse; instead of packing worms in a can my dad and I spent the day clutching the toilet seat and hurling our guts out. It sucked especially for me because I had only gotten about three hours of sleep due to Orenda's late night adventure. There was a really big rainstorm that day, so even if my dad and I were in good condition, we would've been drenched. Anyway, we didn't eat for practically the whole day (when we did it came back up again) and that made my mom really upset with herself because she thought it was her dinner that made us sick; but to be honest it was really just a salami sandwich my dad and I had snuck before eating dinner the day before.

All that resulted in me not finishing my book report on "The Little Bird Who Was Really Not A Little Bird" because I couldn't really function physically, much less think. I missed school that entire week and Marybeth called in every single day to make sure I wasn't ditching – in which I told her I wasn't – nonetheless she didn't believe me. Orenda also called a few times to make sure I was still alive, and I told her I was, and she believed me. Egan came over once with a box full of chips, Capri Suns, and chocolate bars in hopes of making me feel better, but my mom strongly disagreed with that idea.

Once my dad and I had puked ourselves dry as a crisp, it was Friday, and we remembered that St. Hemling gave the students the Friday off – so my dad checked the weather and decided to make that the day we would revisit the "fishing in the great outdoors at 5 A.M." activity.

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"Finnegan, bring me the blue bait box, please." My dad said as the car pulled up onto the gravel road by the lake filled with fish.

"Really? Blue bait box? Normal dads don't make fun of their child's inability to have vision and know fishing terms," I joked.

He guffawed and said, "I'm not a normal dad, bud," as we got out of the car in unison. I groaned at my dad's response and snapped open my white cane while my dad hauled the boat onto the water. I breathed in deeply. The air was crisp but still had the sweetness of summer bound to it, and for a small second I didn't regret waking up at 4 in the morning to fish for nothing at all, despite hardly being awake enough to keep my eyes open (not that that makes a difference).

"The thing about fishing is, Finnegan, it's boring. It's absolutely spirit-draining. But it gives good time for good conversation, what d'ya say?" My dad continued rambling on about how fishing was good for the rotting soul and I agreed with him all the way until we were both sitting on the boat and the sharp quick jolts of my dad's rowing could be felt.

"What do you want to talk about, dad? You know, to prevent the spirit-draining."

No answer. He was too busy rowing so I just waited until we started floating peacefully.

"How's school?" He asked gruffly.

"You ask me that everyday."

"Everyday I get the same answer! 'Good.' 'Good'. And surprise, surprise! 'Good' again. I swear, the school could blow up – God forbid – and you would say 'good.'"