It doesn’t leave all at once, that’s what my dad used to say. It seeps away like a slow leak until there’s nothing left. Nothing but remnants. He was trying to tell me something but whatever it was hovered just beyond my reach. His speech was clear enough and he spoke familiar words, words I’d heard, but in that grouping they landed like a foreign language. He sensed my inability to understand and suggested we go fishing, his cure for a long list of conditions, including confusion.

At the pond we walked the length of an old pier, some boards warped, some missing. When we reached the end, he cast his line off to one side, leaned rod against rail, then cast mine to within a few feet.

“Well, I still got that.”

We watched the water like we were stuck in traffic, hoping the cars in front would move but they never did and neither did our corks. But when I got a bite, mine bobbed like a ballet dancer. With a hard snap I set the hook and dialed in my catch, leaving my dad stuck in the traffic, not a ballet dancer in sight.

It wasn’t long before his slow leak gushed out like a geyser. Fishing couldn’t fix him, his condition wasn’t on the list. Years later I went back to the pond. It looked smaller and except for a few pylons, the pier was gone. Nothing left but remnants.

He tried to tell me.

I brought my rod but my condition wasn’t on the list, either. Besides, I never could cast like him.