And I can remember the sunny, chalky road winding down to the river, and I can remember the dark wooden inside of the bait shop on the shore. And very clear and bright I can see the big wooden bin to the left of the door, where they kept the crickets. Thousands of them it seemed, wiggling around like manic spiders, creepy and cool at once. And I can remember the flat sheet of metal wielded onto the sill of a window to the left, just beyond the bin, where my grandfather scaled and gutted the fish we caught, and pushed the offal away into the water.
But I can't remember where we went fishing; just a blurry sense of staring down into the river water washing around the piers. And I'm not even sure that is Florida, or river water. Perhaps it's the lake my great-aunt took me to in North Carolina, where we first drank Mountain Dew, and the silt was soft and deep and sucked my feet in as I went wading.
I think the dock extended out beyond the shop; at least I remember my grandfather walking back with me, but beyond the little patch, it all fades into a white blur, like a simulation no one has bothered to finish. I walk out into the sunlit void, a cup of crickets in my hand.