I watch as he casts the fly. I remember the meter of casting but still haven’t mastered the finesse. My brother has been doing this for a while and he’s mastered both, even perfecting the awkward cast from a kayak.

I remember when we were both very young I would go to Roosevelt Park with him and I was a burden, as I’m sure younger brothers tend to be. I feel nostalgic and peaceful as the rushing water fills in the background noise.

Our priorities have changed a lot since than, back than there were girlfriends buzzing around him, there was a tape player with music of the day, I think it was Queen at the time. Time seemed not to fly by as it does when you’re young.

This time there are no piers, not even our kids are around, we don’t even converse. He seems to be in his zone as I am in mine. There is something simple and natural about fishing-there seems to be little that needs to be said.

The light casts shadows and glistens on his silhouette-lighting up the fly line and the rod as he shadow casts, I sketch while writing notes about this post. There is an indifference in nature and when you fit into that space, even for just a few minutes, there is a peace that is hard to describe.

All that exists for that moment are memories like the autumn leaves that float on the current, thoughts and ideas like the current that flows a constant. We are close as brothers can be for that moment, no questions, no bravado-just an afternoon fly fishing in a landscape that fits us both like a glove.