Memory is a fascinating thing; it allows us to selectively remember our happy moments, but never lets us forget our worst. I remember the first time my grandpa had taken me fishing. I wasn’t a fan of early mornings at all, but on this particular day, I could call myself the world’s number one supporter of these dreadful sleepy mornings. The summer was hot, but the mornings were the kind of ice cold that bled through your skin and tickled your bones. It was 5:00am and I had just rubbed the grogginess out of my eyes, stumbled into the bathroom and unsuccessfully tried to run my fingers through the rat’s nest that consumed my head; but being so young and naïve, frankly I wouldn't care if I didn’t have any hair at this point. The old floor boards creaked below my bare feet as if they were yelling at me to go back to bed, but this sound was welcoming. As we made our way outside, the dew covered grass soaked my feet; I guess that’s why my grandpa had told me told to wear running shoes-oh well. I welcomed the smell of gasoline as my grandpa started his ancient boat, almost as ancient as the floor boards; pulling the chord back 3 times in order to start the motor. The boat lazily tipped from side to side causing little ripples in the water that started off so grand and significant, then eventually melted away into the dark water; I guess that’s how everything starts off.  It took him 10 minutes to find the perfect spot- in the middle of nowhere. He claimed that “this is where all the big fishies hide out.” The sun had just begun to glance over the horizon, allowing its dull light to charge my body with the little hope that remained. I wanted to catch a fish, any fish, so bad it physically hurt. I wanted to make my grandpa proud. I sat there, waiting patiently to reel in a small scaled creature that would determine my fate. But I was left there empty handed and disappointed. Staring into the deep dark void that had now became this lake. I watched my reflection, distorted by the gentle movement of the water; the only reflection I could stare at with genuine innocence and self-love. A moment in time frozen from the rest of earth’s wildest chaos which would not be contaminated by my future; grandma at this time remembered me; her dementia had not consumed her brain like the cancer that had consumed my mom's throat. Or at this time my grandpa was cancer free and happy, and my dad didn't reek of infidelity and still loved my mom. It was a time which was the closest to perfection I have ever reached, because we were all happy. I guess dark rooms filled with cigarette smoke and  broken souls had replaced fishing trips with my grandpa, and I guess that’s why I can’t look at my reflection any more, and I guess that’s why I stopped swimming and I guess that lake only reflected what I could never have. Like broken mirrors, the fragments of our family had been lost like the ripples in those waves that day and there was nothing I could do to get them back. I never caught a fish.