You remember the last time the two of you went fishing, a slow, hazy day thick with drifting white tufts of cottonwood and the warm smell of pines. The sun, low along the treetops and shining yellow-white, spotlit the two of you under the boughs of an oak along the bank, No need for words, listening to the chirps of crickets, the croaking of toads, the high shish-shish-shish of the cicadas. You try to let this moment wash over you, let it settle into you where it can take root and comfort you when these times are long gone, silent embers which rise in the night, then fade.