100TWC - Day 35: Forgotten

The memories of those warm summer days were all that was left to it now. Day trips to the river with the man and his son. Sunlight flashing and sparkling on the slow-moving water. Early morning mist and the distant muted sound of weekend traffic on the bridge, making its way into the city. Back then the phrase "retail therapy" hadn't been invented, but that's what they would call it now.

It felt useful, on those days. The man's work-roughened hands were warm and strong as he fitted it into place. Into its well-worn groove. It liked that. Being in the groove. It sounded modern. Which for an antique piece was an exciting thing. Slotting into the groove had been part of its experience for countless years. It had belonged to the man's father. And before that, to his father. During those most recently remembered summer mornings by the river, there was no hint that the family tradition wouldn't be continued with the son. The boy who accompanied them on these frequent trips to the water's edge and sat disconsolately munching on a chocolate bar to keep him from fidgeting and disturbing the prey.

On such working days, there would be time to think. Out in the fresh air, tainted with the damp green smell of the river, the faint oily scent of the traffic fumes from the bridge, there were long periods of inactivity. Of gentle contemplation and relaxation. Occasionally there would be conversation between the man and his son. Quiet words, so as not to scare off the timid prey, but deep too. The kind of subject matter that a father would share with his son. The wisdom of ages. The reminiscences. The juvenile, innocent questions. A bonding experience it felt privileged to be a part of, even if only a supporting role.

Then, on good days, there would occasionally be a burst of excited activity when the prey took the bait and its full abilities would be tested to their limits as the battle raged, sometimes short, others long, until the prey was secured and the bait cast out again.

Distant memories, long gone. Now it occupied a lonely corner of a window sill in the old shed. The sill too high to catch sight of anything outside. Gardening activities had stopped soon after the outings to the river, and the shed was rarely opened up any more. Whole seasons, entire years went by with no visitors except the woodworm that rasped at its dull mahogany surface and the spiders who covered it in gossamer.

Soon, even the spiders left. Died out through lack of food in the closed-up shed, or left to seek their fortunes in more well-stocked larders. Their ancient cobwebs slowly gathered dust, hiding it further from sight, and from memory, one mote at a time. Its handsome varnish had long been worn away by the hands of erstwhile owners, and the exposed woodwork decayed gradually under the influence of the damp air of the shed. Brass ferrules and chasings had long lost their shine and become tarnished and pitted.

The shed door opened. A remembered voice disturbed its reverie.

"God. All this too."
"Ugh! I can't go in there. Too spidery. What's that round thing on the sill?"
"What, this?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, wow! My Dad's old reel! Haven't seen this for years."