The Fishing Trip

My father took me fishing once. Just once. I was nine years old, and I had been begging him for months.\n\nWe drove to a lake at dawn. He rented a boat. We sat in silence for hours, holding our rods, watching the water.\n\n"Dad, are there fish in here?"\n\n"Probably."\n\n"When will they bite?"\n\n"When they're ready."\n\nWe didn't catch anything. Not a single fish. But I didn't care. I was with my father, and he wasn't at work, and the sun was warm on my face.\n\nOn the drive home, he said: "You know, my father never took me fishing."\n\n"Why not?"\n\n"He was always working. I don't have a single memory of us doing something like this."\n\n"Were you sad?"\n\nHe didn't answer for a long time. Then: "I'm trying to be a better father than he was."\n\n"Dad, you're the best father."\n\nHe reached over and ruffled my hair. "Thanks, buddy."\n\nMy father died five years ago. I still have the fishing rod he bought me that day. It hangs on my wall.\n\nI take my son fishing now. We haven't caught anything either. But I don't care.\n\nBecause I remember that a father's love isn't measured in fish. It's measured in the moments he shows up.