Once, a long time ago, I saw a father and his son fishing. Standing on the shore of a lake. I stopped to watch, hoping to catch a few words of their conversation. The father was telling his son a story.
. . .
"Have I ever told you about the boy who fished for the stars?"
"No, I don't think so," The boy replied, a look of intrigue settling on his young face.
"Well then, you're in for a treat," He paused, taking a deep breath, and then went on.
"Once upon a time, there was a young boy, not much older than you. Tall and skinny he was, with dirty overalls and nothing but a fishing pole for company. He walked alone, always. No one reckoned his parents cared much for him. The elders used to say that he was there one day and gone the next, like the rain, or the clouds. He never talked – "
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"Did you ever see him?"
"Patience, son. I'm getting there."
"No one ever heard him say a word. Silent as night, he was. Most folks thought he just had his head in the clouds, to busy dreaming to come back down to earth. I'd never though much of him, being busy with a job and a new wife, until one day I saw him writing. Looked to be a letter of some sort. Now, we were by the lake, and about five months to the day I saw him there, an accident was reported, a drowning of some sort. No one knew much about it, so all the townsfolk were a bit edgy for a few weeks after that. Strange folk, very superstitious, they were."
"Anyhow, he folded the letter up nice and neat, then used his fishing pole to cast it far out into the lake. I stayed a bit longer, to see if anything would happen. Nothing did, but I was curious. Why had he thrown that letter into the lake? Could it have something to do with that drowning?"
"And so I came back the next day, hoping to see him do it again. And you know what, I almost did. The boy was there, but this time the letter was already folded. He sat down on a rock, tucked the letter underneath an old wooden plank, then took out an apple, and keeping one eye on the sun, began to eat."
"But then, just as he was finishing his last bites of apple, we heard footsteps. He dropped everything and ran, quick as lightning, but I stayed put, waiting to see who it was. I was quite surprised, you see, when the town's doctor walked into sight. He was a kind man, never panicked or hurried. But he always seemed burdened, weighed down by things no one else knew about. He paused for just a moment, looking out over the lake, thinking. Then he went off on his way. And I, very curious, snuck out from behind the tree. I grabbed the letter and checked to make sure the boy wasn't coming back. He was nowhere in sight, so I opened the letter, and here's what it said:
Dear William,
I know I've written everyday but I always want to know how you are. I know you can't exactly write back, but I like to think that you can anyways. I'm alright, but I miss you all the time. Remember when we went swimming with Daddy? And Mommy got all wet because Daddy hugged her? We used to swim a lot, but I don't anymore because I'm worried. What if what happened to you happens to me too? I didn't want you to die, even if you did punch you in the stomach that one time.
We also used to have a family, but I don't want one anymore because Mommy ran away and Daddy doesn't really love me anymore. I miss them, but not as much as I miss you.
Whenever I think about you, I think about the moon because we used to sit outside and look at the man inside it. You liked crescent moons the best, didn't you? I did too, so I drew you this. It's you sitting on a crescent moon with a fishing pole. I added the fishing pole because fishing was our second favorite thing to do together. Maybe now you can fish for the stars. That would be more fun than fishing for fish. Stars are a lot prettier.
Do you like it? I hope you do.
Love,
Robert
. . .
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"So Robert's brother, did he – was he the one in the accident? Did he drown?"
"Yes, my son. He did."
"But the drawing, isn't that the one you drew? For when you make movies?"
"It is indeed. I saved that letter because I wanted to remember, remember Robert, and remember that childhood isn't everything we adults imagine it to be."
"You were a kid once too, though."
"Yes, I was, I suppose. But old men can be foolish when it comes to the sorrows of youth. We undermine them, dismiss them as silly, childish fantasies. I couldn't forget about that letter, and I didn't want to. It had helped me remember how naïve I was as a child, my hopes and dreams and my imagination. I'd forgotten how much I loved stories and tales . . . I'm sorry, my boy, I must be confusing you with all these new words. Shall we get back to our fishing?"
"Yes, but Daddy, I want to hear more about the boy who fished for the stars! He was real, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was alive and well at some point. But by the time I found the letter, he was more a part of Robert's memories. Not real, just a memory. A memory of a boy who loved fishing and swimming. A boy who sat on the moon and fished for the stars . . ."