The One That Got Away

I was eight, when the one got away. I don't really remember what happened, or what it was exactly that got away, but after it happened, Dad said, "Curt, that was the one that got away." I've tried many times to think about what got away, and from whom, and why. The easiest thing to do, I suppose, would be to ask Dad what it was that got away when I was eight, but it's not so easy when there is a strange tension broiling beneath the surfaces. And then, what if Dad doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about? Worse yet, what if he does, but pretends that he doesn't?

Sometimes, I wonder if its even worth thinking about anymore. But no matter how hard I try to forget about what I don't even know, I find myself thinking about the one that got away even more.

These are the things I remember about that day:
It was a bright day, Mom and Dad were in the house, so it must have been a Saturday or a Sunday, I was out back with Tony tossing a football, it was not hot, and it was not cold. There might have been a sound, some noise, a car? Then, later, Dad said, "Curt, that was the one that got away."

It's December. Nearly Christmas. I decided that I would make butter and wrap this butter up so that people could use this wrapped butter as stocking stuffers. Guy says that it's not such a good idea, on account that stockings usually hang on fireplace mantles and that it can get very "warm" there. I am going to make these stocking stuffers, regardless. I am going to make them and think about the one that got away.