It's Enough that You're Here

Because the answers to my questions have always been there

         Have you ever been in the presence of another human being and found yourself wondering: Why do they exist? What is their purpose?

         I’ve asked myself those questions more than once over the past forty-odd years of my existence, because that very person is—

         “You sure you don’t wanna bring Scooby along?” comes the loud bellow, interrupting my thoughts. “I mean, it could come in handy.”

         I sigh. Again.

         “No, Tim. I am not bringing Dad’s old fishing rod. I’ve got new ones. And can we hurry it up? We’re wasting time as it is.”

         “Thought it was your lucky charm,” he grumbles, stashing the last of our gear into the back of his Volkswagen van, complete with its hideous yellow-and-teal paint job.

         If you squint hard enough, you can just about make out the faded psychedelic petals and 1960s slogans promising Peace and Love.

         “Come on, Dog!” Tim calls with a piercing whistle.

         I’m nearly knocked over when his energetic golden retriever bounds out of the bushes and runs circles around him until Tim finally pats him on the head and rewards him with a treat for being such a “good boy.”

         It shouldn’t surprise me that my older brother has a dog named Dog. It’s just one of the many quirks I’ve learned to live with over the years.

         No matter how many times I tried to give our pets proper names as children, Tim refused to use them. The dog, cat, and tortoise—Sir Henry, as I insisted on calling him—were always just “Dog,” “Cat,” and “Big Tortoise.”

         “Names are just cages,” he’d argue, leaving everyone around the dinner table bewildered. “I refuse to put them in human-linked cages. They have the right to be what they want to be.”

         Getting into an argument with Tim always got you nowhere.

         Eventually, we make our way to The Valley, a popular fishing spot for locals in our small town of Camden.

         With a population of just over two thousand souls, we were a relatively tight-knit community. Everyone knew everyone—sort of. We lived on the outskirts of Camden, on a slope overlooking Marian’s Tears, a waterfall about a mile from The Valley.

         Childhood summers were usually spent splashing around in Marian’s Tears when we weren’t stuck at The Valley with Dad, trying to catch a trout or two.

         Ever the consummate fisherman, Dad was determined to teach Tim and me everything we needed to know to “tame the waters.” We spent hours studying river currents, the best times to fish, different types of fish, the best bait, and which rival fishermen you definitely didn’t want for company.

         Scooby was Dad’s favourite fishing rod—a sturdy thing capable of hauling in a fifty-pounder on a good day.

         I loved watching Dad use it, especially when he looked so big and strong, bracing his legs apart as he roared:

         “He’s a big one, Sammy! Timmy!”

         He’d let us “help” with the catch, Tim and me hugging either side of him and pulling together until the air seemed to glitter with the thrashing fish and droplets of water sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight.

         Years later, as he lay dying, his body no longer able to fight the cancer that had ravaged his lungs, he bequeathed Scooby to me.

         I never felt I deserved it.

         Tim was much better at fishing.

         And still is.

         It’s probably why Scooby was left behind after the funeral.

         “Ah, smell that fresh air, Sammy,” Tim says, exhaling as he admires the scenery. “Doesn’t that bring back memories, eh?”

         It does.

         For some ridiculous reason, my eyes sting with tears as I help unload our gear.

         Dog is already making himself at home, his excitement contagious as he bounds along the quiet shore. An impossibly beautiful aquamarine river shimmers beneath the mid-morning sun, surrounded by the familiar rugged hills of Crestor’s Pass, with Marian’s Tears cascading in the distance.

         You couldn’t ask for a more picturesque setting.

         I am ten years old again.

         I fully expect to look to my right and see Dad performing his familiar ritual of arranging his tackle box, checking that the hooks, lines, and bait are all in order.

         But it’s only Tim.

         My annoying older brother Tim, whose quirks I’ve always told myself were irritating, and yet I suddenly realise how much I’ve missed them.

         It’s frightening to see how much he looks like our father. He inherited that thick bush of red hair, the beard, and those jolly features that somehow betray none of the grief caused by the recent loss of his childhood sweetheart and wife, Lorna, in a tragic car accident.

         It’s the reason I finally decided to visit after almost ten years of absence.

         Not because we hated each other.

         It was just…

         Life.

         He and Lorna had no children, and I can still remember how delighted he sounded on the phone when I called him after all those years.

         I scrub at my face in frustration, hoping he hasn’t noticed my moment of weakness.

         Soon, we’re sitting side by side in pleasant silence, our fishing rods bobbing gently in the soothing water as it laps against our boots. Dog plays fetch with the sticks we absent-mindedly throw for him.

         There are so many things I want to say to Tim.

         I just don’t know where to begin.

         “It’s enough that you’re here.”

         The quiet words make me blink in confusion.

         Did I say those thoughts out loud?

         I glance at him and catch the warm smile that creates familiar crinkles around his eyes. The intense blue of the river is reflected in them, though they glisten with something else too—understanding, perhaps, or maybe tears of his own.

         “I’ve missed you, Sammy.”

         The lump in my throat tightens.

         I’m afraid I won’t be able to respond until, finally, I manage to choke out:

         “I’ve missed you too.”

         Because the answers to my questions have always been there.

         His reason.

         His purpose.

         His place in my life.

         My brother.

         Priceless.




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Word Count: 1000
Prompt: Use the following in your poem or story: fisherman, a dog named dog, waterfall, trout, valley
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"