My dad opened the foam cup and dug through the dirt, pulling out a worm. I followed his example and picked out my own worm. I wanted to play with the worms, which we had caught in our backyard the night before, but Dad had other plans.

Without compassion, Dad took the worm in his hands and tore it in half. The creature didn't bleed--that astonished me. I pulled apart my own worm with my 5-year-old hands, dropping the other half into the cup next to the other half of Dad's worm. Dad helped me thread my worm on the hook and showed me how to cast.

I sat silently on the dock beside my dad, intently watching my red and white bobber.

A few hours later, my bobber plunged under the water. My fishing pole started wiggling.

"Dad!" I cried, "I got one!"

Dad helped me reel in my fish, a little rainbow trout. He put the fish on the stringer with his five, baited my hook for me, helped me cast, and the monotony that is fishing began again.

While I was growing up, Dad wasn't able to come to any of my birthday parties or school plays.

Although my dad and I didn't spend a lot of time together, the times I remember were not of him being gone. I remember him making me laugh when I was sad and taking me fishing.

Neither my dad nor I have been fishing in years. Instead, we have bonded by swapping quite a few fish stories since our last fishing trip.