The Bait

Saturday mornings, before my weekly chores, I used to sneak out of the house and across the street, grabbing the first grasshopper walking in the damp California grass along the stream. Carefully hiding a silver hook beneath its green wings, I'd float it out across the gentle ripples towards the end of its life. Just like that. I'd give it the hook and let it ride. All I ever expected for it was that big-mouth bass awaiting its arrival. I didn't think that I was giving up one life to get another, that even childhood was full of sacrifice. I'd just take the bright green thing, pluck it off its only stalk, and give it away as if it were mine to give. I knew someone out there would be fooled, that someone would accept the precious gift. So I just sent it along with a plea of a prayer, hoping it would spread its wings this time and fly across that wet glass sky, no concern for what inspired its life, or mine, only instinct guiding pain towards the other side.