There are days in a man’s life that stick to him the way river mud sticks to the soles of old boots. Days that never quite wash off, no matter how many years pass between the memory and the present. PawPaw’s last ride sits in my mind like that. I reckon it always will.

The morning we set out for the backwater near Centre had that soft, pearly light that only Alabama knows how to make. The kind that rises slow, stretches across the fields like a cat wakin’ from a nap, and promises a warm day ahead. PawPaw was already sittin’ on the porch when I got home from work, hands in his overalls pockets, breathin’ in the world like he feared it might vanish if he looked away too long. He pulled out his pocket watch and gave me the look.

“You ready to go fishin’, old man?” I hollered.

He gave me a look that said “You hafta ask, boy?”.

“Son, I was ready before you was born. Now help me load up before I change my mind.”

He always said that, though he never once changed his mind about fishin’.

We climbed into his beat up ol’ blue and white Chevrolet pickup, the one that rattled like a jar of nickels and smelled faintly of gasoline, old tobacco, and the stubbornness of its owner. PawPaw eased into the seat like he was takin’ his place on a throne older than time. The engine coughed, wheezed, balked, and then settled into a rumbling growl that said it had one more adventure left in it, same as PawPaw.

The drive to Centre took us through backroads lined with wildflowers and old barns leanin’ at angles no carpenter would ever approve of. PawPaw talked about people he used to know. Folks long gone. Folks I only halfway remembered. He laughed harder at those stories than the stories themselves deserved, but I didn’t mind. His laugh was a gift and I was greedy for it.

When we reached the backwater, the sun was high enough to make the ripples flash like coins tossed from Heaven. The concrete bridge sat there like a fossil from another age, cut short at the place where the old road vanished under the reservoir. It was a strange sight. A road that led nowhere, swallowed whole by progress and water.

PawPaw loved it.

“Look at that, Jim,” he said, leaning on the rail. “All them fellas fishin’ on the road to nowhere. That’s dedication.”

Truth be told, I think he liked watchin’ them more than catchin’ anything himself. We cast our lines and settled into that good silence that comes from bein’ near water with someone you love. Fish started bitin’ early, nothin’ big, but lively enough to keep us both grinnin’.

A man in a floppy hat two spots down hooked a fish so small it looked like a tadpole that had big dreams. He held it up like it was a trophy. PawPaw near about fell over laughing.

“Son,” he called out, “you better put that fish back before it swears out a warrant for kidnappin’.”

The man winked at PawPaw and said, “Big ones are comin’, old timer.”

“That’s what all you little fish believers say,” PawPaw shot back.

We laughed so hard our ribs hurt. The sun warmed our backs, the breeze kept the gnats polite, and the day stretched out sweet as cane syrup poured slow from the bottle.

At one point, PawPaw grew quiet. Not sad. Just peaceful. He watched the water a long time. Then he said:

“Jim… this is a good day. Maybe the best one.”

I knew what he meant, though he never spoke it plain. His body was growin’ tired. His heart had been whisperin’ warnings for months. But that day, standin’ beside me on an old bridge that led nowhere, he had everything he needed.

We fished.
We lied.
We laughed at strangers.
We talked about the past like it was a neighbor leanin’ over the fence.
And when the sun began to dip toward the treeline, PawPaw tapped my arm.

“Let’s go home, son. My bones are tellin’ me to git off this bridge.”

The drive back felt quieter, though neither of us said why. When I helped him out of the truck at home, he squeezed my shoulder with a strength he shouldn’t have had left.

“Much obliged to you, Jim,” he said. “It was a good day.”

I swallowed hard.
“You’re welcome, PawPaw.”

He nodded once, turned slow, and walked toward the porch with that stubborn gait of his, shoulders set like a sail catchin’ its last wind.

I did not know for certain it would be the last time we ever fished together.
But part of me did.
Part of me always had.

Years later, when I drive past that backwater, I still see him there at the rail, holdin’ his rod, laughin’ about little fish believers and roads to nowhere. The memory rises like mist off the water, gentle and warm.

And every time I feel that ache in my chest, the good kind of ache, I remember his words.

“This is a good day. Maybe the best one.”

He was right.
And I reckon he always did know more than he let on.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.