I hear your voice. It is a whisper through the bass rumble of the houseboat’s engine. My eyes gaze past the silver rail and the beach-toy-littered bow below to an unknown place. We are both settled into the padded chairs at the helm. The breeze is brushing past the white canvas of the Bimini top. Your ecru Tilley sits covering your balding head. It is forward enough to just miss giving shade to your narrow nose. Surrounding us, the sky is a faded blue as the late afternoon hours move us closer to the end of our last day. Your hands rest on the chrome wheel – on your left, four diamonds are closely nestled in your wide, three decades old band. The golden hair on your arms is a camouflage for your umber freckles.
Beyond the frame, the young ones are giggling and jostling for the best position. The older ones’ eyes are filled with amusement as they guard the gigglers from the slippery deck, from the edges, from the water below. The cut line, a visible border on the 49th parallel, comes into view and you turn the craft north towards home.
Now: It was and still is rare for me to relax into a moment of mindful presence. With Ken gone, I am so grateful that I have a record of this time and place – a specific memory of when I chose to listen.
Now Brings Joy 