A sliver of sunlight shows through the gray clouds. We sit, not speaking, but listening to a few crows gathering in the alder behind us and the curious squirrel scampering up the spruce tree. I sit beside my dad as smoke-scent wraps around us.
In between last week’s storms, we readied the smokehouse.
All the while, he could hardly wait to get home and fish for cohos.Ī day after returning home to the island, we took him fishing and he caught two cohos, enough to fill the smokehouse. He spent two weeks in the hospital and recovered at a family member’s home in Wasilla. His doctor suspected congestive heart failure and sent him to the emergency room. This summer, he spent a week in the hospital here in Wrangell, and then flew to Anchorage to his cardiologist. My father’s hands steady again, but they weren’t so steady two months ago. He holds a small chunk of wood atop the block and with an ax he splits the wood. My father leans the broom against the nearby shipping container and heads over to a block of wood. My coffee thermos, cupped in my hands, warms me on this cool morning. I don’t offer to help with the spider smoke-out. He said he couldn’t sleep last night because he was excited to smoke the cohos. My dad is up early smoking out spiders from the smokehouse and sweeping them down with a broom.
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