It's a quiet morning on the Long Island Sound. The hook and bait  are descending in the water. Striped bass and seagulls all around. There's a whisper of the crash of waves and the sensational swoosh of wind.  The dock is empty and the sun is satisfyingly smiling back on my cheeks.  Except you were underneath. Drowning and fighting  as the current drags you.  The water was a war.  As the hook grabs on, the line tugs. The fishing rod danced with the waves. You tug and––– I reel back in. It's gone. Maybe next time I’ll use minnows  instead of squid.  Maybe next time. Hopefully next time you don’t  bite down on the sham bait,  pulling you away from me,  to the surface, to the light. Hopefully.