My Uncle came home on weekends every Saturday night,
As we ate Sunday breakfast at my grandma and grandpa’s table,
My eyes would stare until his eyes met mine,
For he knew that I was always ready willing and able.
I would go out and dig up fish worms by the garden nearby
As I shoveled each hole, I would count each slimy worm one by one,
Believing that the more I found the hopes grew so high,
Then finally we’d load up everything, and cast our poles under the sun.
Sometimes we were lucky, put patience we would practice yet once again,
I would learn so much not just about fishing, but gathering new memories and thoughts,
For I can no longer remember the number of fish caught, but fishing always still a friend.
My uncle no longer is by my side, gut still is within my heart with the forget-me-nots.