Worms Dying

This is the story I sent into the Sun magazine for this month's theme, Rain.

As soon as I could smell the dying worms bloated in the puddles in the driveway, I knew it was fishing season.

Saturday morning before the sun's rays poured over the low Appalachian hills out my bedroom window, Dad lightly tapped me on the back. I burrowed under my covers, warm, before I drowsily let myself be lifted out of bed by my father.

Mom said the worms came up to the surface to keep from drowning from all the rain. Those that made it to the surface then died in the muddy puddles. And those we used for bait also drowned, I suppose.

Sitting on a black garbage bag to keep my backside dry, Dad showed me how to put the hook through the two thick purple pouches of the worms so that they wouldn't fall off the hook (certainly leading to drowning). I did, until he added that the thick parts were the bloated stomachs of pregnant worms. I couldn't bring myself to push a hook through a lady-worm killing her babies. So instead of fishing, I emptied out the styrofoam cup of worms onto the black trash bag. There, I let the worms crawl through my fingers, tickling me. It didn't bother my dad that I wasn't actually fishing; at least we were spending time together. And I didn't mind offering him one of the worms when he needed to rebait his hook.

Rainy days meant indoor recess. I'd stare out through the blurry window pane imagining all the worms I could gather for our next fishing trip. The day after a rainstorm was the perfect opportunity for digging up worms under the swing set. I figured they'd have come to the surface the day before, so that those that hadn't drowned would not have had time to burrow far into the earth. Kneeling under the swings with my hands trawling through the mud, I pulled the worms up from their tiny hollows. Then I thrust them into my jacket pockets.

As a quiet, almost silent, child, the gift of worms was my language of gratitude. I so enjoyed my moments with my dad. Even at a young age, I realized that our relationship was unique. My girl friends' fathers rarely spent time with them doing "masculine" activities. I hoped that Dad would correctly interpret the meaning of my gift as a plea to continue inviting me to go fishing with him on rainy spring Saturdays.

I imagined how pleased my father would be as I held out the worms in my cupped hands- a living sacrifice.

But when I stepped off the school bus and threw my hands into my pockets, I only felt their shrivelled, hardened corpses. I'd spill their parched bodies onto the driveway- a burnt offering.


(this photo found in Creative Commons)

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