The Family Bog

Another chance to dwell on a beautiful photo and see what springs to mind courtesy Sunday Photo Fiction. One of my favorite exercises, regardless of where it takes me.


The flood of emotion swelled  when I realized what picture had fallen from the stack.

Twenty-some years old and the photo was still as vivacious as ever. The old camping spot.

The last place Dad had been happy.

Tommy and I were in our late teens the last time we’d camped there. “The Family Bog,”  Tommy had dubbed it.

While my brother and I cherished the spot, Dad downright loved it.

“Catch and release, boys, that’s our game,” Dad had told us every time we dropped our lures. “Not that we’d eat anything out of that pond anyways.”

My eyes wandered across the various greens and yellows splashing  the photograph. I smelled the moss on the water. Heard the birds in the trees. The frogs sung us to sleep, while the crickets and campfire battled for our attention. Felt the stone of the landing where we dangled our feet and lines. Heard the dull clack of the pebbles  when we hit the floating stone in the middle of the rock.

Then I heard my dad’s voice a week after that last trip. Sitting at dinner, eating mom’s pot roast.

“Cancer. Eight weeks.”

He got up and left the room.

He was gone forever seven weeks later.


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