We were fourteen at the time, our first time to
go fishing. Brooklyn looked just as we imagined,
not extravagant, not elegant, not Manhattan.
The blank boat bounced on the tough water,
amplifying ocean waves. My dozed off cousin
is embedded in his black Adidas hoodie.
Mouth opened wider than the grand canyon.
Perfect posture for a picture.

Examining Brooklyn by the rail, my
father stands with his Ray-Ban sunglasses
perched on his head. Easily, I could tell by his grin that
he was laughing in his head. Laughing because he knew
he was going to beat us in our fishing competition
by a large Marlin. Next to him, Waluigi was fixing
his rod. We compared him to Waluigi, since the man
was a skyscraper, wore dirty overalls, and had a fishing
rod for a mustache. His mustache flowed in sync with
the cold, piercing, morning wind. The 6 A.M.
temperatures were beyond unforgiving.

With an arm extended to take the photo,
I had a wicked smirk on my face.
Ready to show him. Ready to lie. Ready to
tell him I’ll delete it, just to keep him at bay.
I know he’s skeptical, but I’ll laugh it off.
Tell him the only fishy thing is what we’ll catch.
If the world is half bad and half good, then I’m
the world. He’s back in Virginia now-

But I remember that brotherly bond.