Flowers on Sunday Still Again

Today we cruised around Lake Mendota in honor of Maureen’s 75th birthday –  an aquatic circumambulation of the 26 mile shoreline on the sturdy and comfy Betty Lou, steered by Captain Jeremy and served by First Mate Tara.  The weather blessed Maureen’s celebration with nothing less than perfect skies and breezes.  Trouble could not find any of us, out there on the lake.  We were going too slow to catch, and camouflaged too well to be recognized, in our floppy sun hats and shades.

In the three hours, I did not hear any stories of situations that will get better.  Nor did I tell even one tale from my own life that I thought would turn out.  Even when our trouble recedes, we know some day it will return – no matter how this particular tale resolves.  Return better armed, or maybe swifter and more stealthy – slipping underneath us like black ice we mistake for only rain on the pavement.

What answer can I give, except to agree that this afternoon was perfect in every possible way – from the Swedish meatballs and glimmers of champagne, to deep stands of cat tails rustling against the shore?

And to know that we share the same hope, as we glide past waterfront oaks and islands of thick waterlily pads:  to be called on to love and to listen to each other tell the story again.  Next time.

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