We'll Say Anniversary. "It's a basic canoe", I said. "It's stable, balanced, but hold the gunwales when you move around."
"We'll eat snakes and drink Kool-Aid", you said. "If you mix the grape and the lemon aid it makes Purplesaurus Rex."
I'm the only one who remembers that, I thought.
We pushed off, soaking our bags with the water that dripped from our paddles as we switched our strokes from one side of the canoe to the other.
"We'll get married in September", I heard you say, softly.
When I think of you and me, it's like I've walked into a movie late. The only character I recognize is you.
The paddles hit the sides of the canoe like flat palms on drum skins. I imagined fish scattering as the sound made lines in the water.
"We'll write our names in my Daddy's Bible", you said. "I'll be the Misrus to your Mister".
There aren't words in that book to make what we are right, I thought. And I grew sleepy as we moved our paddles in the water, tiny whirlpools born out of the motion.