In my cusped hands dripped a lustrous jewel. Its belly was streaked pink, and the rest of its body speckled in luminescent hues of amber and bronze. The overall effect was that of a fine watercolor, hand-painted by a master. It was a gem of a fish.
The road that led me to quit my job and fly fish in North Carolina that summer was as twisty as the Blue Ridge Parkway itself. But after seven cancer surgeries and radiation, multiplied with the strain of a big job in a big city, the cracks began to show