This afternoon, I’m going to carry my yellow kayak down to the bay, where I’ll slip it through the fence and slowly down into the water. Then I’ll climb over the fence and down the wall to the barnacle and mussel-sharp rocks, step up to my knees in the sloshing water, and work my way into the boat. I’ll push off and paddle slowly out to the bird sanctuary island in the middle of the bay, looking down into the water for fish or manatees as I pull myself along. No other boats will be out there this late in the day, so I’ll let my thoughts roam. Maybe I’ll stop paddling and drift. While I’m out there drifting, my wife will come home from work; she’ll smell the soup I left simmering in the crock-pot. She’ll change her clothes and go outside to our back yard, to see what’s up with the small world we’ve planted there. As I paddle quietly around the island, trying not to startle the herons and frigate birds, the anhinga or the pelicans, she’ll cut some garden arugula for salad, to go with the soup. Then maybe she’ll call one of our children, both of whom live so far away, or maybe she’ll pour herself a glass of wine and wish she were out there with me, drifting back to shore in the brand-new darkness. She’ll ride her bike down to that park and stand at the railing looking for my yellow kayak as it slides through the distance and approaches her there. And when I get out and dry off we’ll sit on a bench in the park and drink a glass of wine and tell each other about our days. Then we’ll walk home for soup and arugula salad. After dinner we’ll read, and just before bed, maybe we’ll step outside and look up at the moon, a feather of light in the dark night sky.
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