My husband has been offered summer Fridays at work and now gets out at noon. I leave work at noon every Friday, but now, he joins me, a few hours later since he travels sixty miles, still early enough for the two of us to get a jump on the weekend.
This past Friday, I had time to do a bit of writing before he arrived home, and then we packed up a bag and headed toward the twelve-foot dinghy we keep in the harbor. Nothing miraculous, just a tour around moored boats and up what is called “the creek,” a meandering tributary feeding through the marshes leading toward the next town. But, there’s everything to be said about how the afternoon light gained texture as the sun made it slow descent, the glint of a fishing line like a spider’s strand as a man cast from his stance on a barrier beach. Perhaps the best part of the trip was the knowledge that for the rest of the afternoon, there was nothing that had to be done. We settled ourselves on our moored sailboat and chatted, the simple gift of conversation reinforcing our gratitude for time.