Course. I whooped as I pulled into the lead, my back, my arms, every muscle in my body working, pulling, stretching. I felt strong again, more like myself, or who I used to be. Adventurous, fun. Free.
I was reaching my stride on the straightaway past the grand-stand and knew I could have kept going for miles. Paddling until the moon came up, and pushing on until the sun returned, just as I had on so many rivers for so many years. But the end of this race was around the next bend, and I didn’t look back until I reached Lighthouse Pond.
The Js arrived a minute later, wiping their faces with their T-shirts as they pulled up alongside my canoe. “You should have warned us,” Jason said, taking his wallet from his backpack and digging out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. It was green.
I snapped the money out of his fingers. “Not bad for my age level, I guess.”
Jonah groaned and went for his wallet, handing me two wilted tens. Both purple. If only he’d handed me fives.
“Nice race,” he said.
“You too,” I said, and shook their hands, because I’d mellowed and was now gracious in victory. But that didn’t mean I’d be returning their money. “If your suits enjoy themselves half as much as I did, you will have a definite hit on your hands.”
“We’re going out to explore the inner harbor a little,” Jason said. “See if there’s something we can do out there as well. Want to come along?”
A year ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I would have been right there beside them, talking paddles and canoes, races and strategies. But not only has Big Al made me mellow, he’s also made me fearful. I no longer leap before I look, no longer fly by the seat of my pants. Every move, every decision is carefully weighed and measured, examined for dangers and possible traps. The lagoons were safe, the shore always within easy reach. But the harbor was a different story, with heavy boat traffic and water cold enough to steal your breath, even this time of year. As much as I longed to go with them, open water was no longer safe for me.
Clutching the bills and my small victory tightly, I smiled and waved them away. “You go ahead. I should be getting back.”
“Nice meeting you,” Jason said.
“Good luck with the suits,” I told them, and split off, leisurely making my way back to the regatta course without once looking back. What was the point, after all? As Grandma Lucy used to say, The foolish woman dwells on what’s gone by her. The wise one looks ahead at what’s to come . Even when what’s to come is hard to imagine.
Contrary to what Mark might think, putting an end to myself is not something I take lightly. I’ve always wanted to live forever, become the wise old woman of the Island, the keeper of history, the teller of tales, respected by all for her honesty and wit. That’s why I hope for miracles daily. The sheer number of pills in my cupboard are testament to that. As well as the prescribed medications, I have ginkgo biloba, Siberian ginseng, and St. John’s wort or blister or whatever it was the poor man had, all sold to me as Guaranteed Memory Enhancers.
When I get home, I’ll swallow those pills and think positively about miracle cures. But because I’m a realist, I’ll also sit down at the computer and type “painless poisons” into the search engine. Does that make me selfish? Perhaps, but the alternative is too grim to consider. I refuse to spend the rest of my life warming the bench. If I can’t play, I’ll take my ball and go home. Wherever that may be.
Rounding the bend near the farm, I lifted my paddle out of the water and drifted for a moment, hoping I might see Grace pedaling along the paths or peering through her binoculars, watching for birds. While I am honestly pleased she’s found a distraction, something to keep her mind off other, unpleasant things, I’m more grateful she hasn’t started bringing any of her feathered friends home—Lord knows we had enough of that with
I was reaching my stride on the straightaway past the grand-stand and knew I could have kept going for miles. Paddling until the moon came up, and pushing on until the sun returned, just as I had on so many rivers for so many years. But the end of this race was around the next bend, and I didn’t look back until I reached Lighthouse Pond.
The Js arrived a minute later, wiping their faces with their T-shirts as they pulled up alongside my canoe. “You should have warned us,” Jason said, taking his wallet from his backpack and digging out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. It was green.
I snapped the money out of his fingers. “Not bad for my age level, I guess.”
Jonah groaned and went for his wallet, handing me two wilted tens. Both purple. If only he’d handed me fives.
“Nice race,” he said.
“You too,” I said, and shook their hands, because I’d mellowed and was now gracious in victory. But that didn’t mean I’d be returning their money. “If your suits enjoy themselves half as much as I did, you will have a definite hit on your hands.”
“We’re going out to explore the inner harbor a little,” Jason said. “See if there’s something we can do out there as well. Want to come along?”
A year ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I would have been right there beside them, talking paddles and canoes, races and strategies. But not only has Big Al made me mellow, he’s also made me fearful. I no longer leap before I look, no longer fly by the seat of my pants. Every move, every decision is carefully weighed and measured, examined for dangers and possible traps. The lagoons were safe, the shore always within easy reach. But the harbor was a different story, with heavy boat traffic and water cold enough to steal your breath, even this time of year. As much as I longed to go with them, open water was no longer safe for me.
Clutching the bills and my small victory tightly, I smiled and waved them away. “You go ahead. I should be getting back.”
“Nice meeting you,” Jason said.
“Good luck with the suits,” I told them, and split off, leisurely making my way back to the regatta course without once looking back. What was the point, after all? As Grandma Lucy used to say, The foolish woman dwells on what’s gone by her. The wise one looks ahead at what’s to come . Even when what’s to come is hard to imagine.
Contrary to what Mark might think, putting an end to myself is not something I take lightly. I’ve always wanted to live forever, become the wise old woman of the Island, the keeper of history, the teller of tales, respected by all for her honesty and wit. That’s why I hope for miracles daily. The sheer number of pills in my cupboard are testament to that. As well as the prescribed medications, I have ginkgo biloba, Siberian ginseng, and St. John’s wort or blister or whatever it was the poor man had, all sold to me as Guaranteed Memory Enhancers.
When I get home, I’ll swallow those pills and think positively about miracle cures. But because I’m a realist, I’ll also sit down at the computer and type “painless poisons” into the search engine. Does that make me selfish? Perhaps, but the alternative is too grim to consider. I refuse to spend the rest of my life warming the bench. If I can’t play, I’ll take my ball and go home. Wherever that may be.
Rounding the bend near the farm, I lifted my paddle out of the water and drifted for a moment, hoping I might see Grace pedaling along the paths or peering through her binoculars, watching for birds. While I am honestly pleased she’s found a distraction, something to keep her mind off other, unpleasant things, I’m more grateful she hasn’t started bringing any of her feathered friends home—Lord knows we had enough of that with
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