Catching Fish & Racing Sticks
It was approaching midnight. I looked over at the still, calmness of the lake. The gentle light from the half moon reflected off it and gave it an almost fairytale image. I remembered how my late father used to bring me here fishing when I was a little girl. Each Saturday we would come and catch fish for supper which always delighted my Mum. How she misses him dreadfully. I remember how we would race sticks by throwing them into the water and watching which stick reached the edge of the lake first. If a stick went out to sea whichever of us threw it was disqualified from the race. My dad deliberately threw it so it would go out to sea often to let me win. He never knew that I realised that.
Often I come here. Just to think of him. It’s my special place to remember him.
In response to the What Pegman Saw writing prompt: