The Fish Room

I snuck down there evenings he worked at the sawmill, to the lath and concrete room where he gutted perch, tossing tails to the cat. A galaxy of scales glistened on the tabletop, and specks of blood. But the floor was smooth, well-suited for skating to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

I was the girl in the song, and the room—its rows of rods and reels, waders, nets and oars—transformed as I dreamt of getting out, no longer destined to pass every weekend on some Idaho lake, dropping fish into a bucket for my father to clean. Going nowhere.

 

Photo Credit: Mrs. Gemstone

2 Responses to “The Fish Room”

1. Christine says:

   January 2, 2018 at 3:12 am

   I was the girl too.

   Reply
2. Kenny A Chaffin says:

   July 8, 2017 at 10:18 pm

   Nice. Dreaming in the (boys)dad’s room. 🙂

   Reply