We drive to another part of the city, where the pulsing arteries encircling the seat of the nations’ power cannot be heard.
Leaving the car and entering the woods, we hear the songs of birds, wind in the tall trees, and the musical lilt of water.
You are so brave, little girl, marching into the unknown, the slippery rocks and unseen creatures of no concern. The bucolic stillness is broken by your cries, water splashing in your eyes as your brother lands a rock too close.
You call out to me, little boy, for help crossing the stream. I shepherd you to safety. You find a brick among the rocks, proudly carrying it with intentions to take it home. You drop it on your foot and howl. Your wet, muddy sister protests my attempts to comfort you, claiming me as all her own.
The sun is warm but not hot, there is a gentle breeze, a perfect day. The water reflects the sunlight like an undulating mirror. I think about the day I will come here without you and sit, probably with a novel in hand. All I will hear is the trees, the birds, the water. And I will miss you terribly.
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