Strawberry sky cradled the sinking orange on the horizon. Lazily, my makeshift canoe creaked as it rocked on the water’s surface, pushed gently from underneath. Thick pools of fog settled and replaced the dark indigo surface with a ghostly white. It wisped through clusters of algae-copper rocks peeking at the sun, which crept farther out of sight, weighted by its own cooling fatigue. As I brushed my fingers over a cold, white-streaked rock passing the side of the canoe, I thought about how I would give all of this up to be with you.
I like to draw smiley faces on cue balls with dry sharpies. I’m not sure who gave me the habit (family was always meticulous), but it’s always been a private source of joy. It’s not just making the face, it’s the squeak of the ink-strained tip as I press it to the glossed surface. Moving the malleable nib in circles for nearly a half hour, the day’s stress melts away from my grateful fingers.