This weekend I’m going to sit in the river and let it take me where it wants to go.
This river is metaphorical, of course. I could never sit in a real river, as I have far too many control issues.
This weekend I’m going to lie in the grass with my daughter, and look up underneath the 125-year-old maple tree, and we shall spot the individual leaves among thousands that have already turned bright red. She will ask why some leaves turn red two months early, and I’ll make up something.
This weekend I’m going to sit in the hot tub that I have meticulously brought to a PH of 7.8 and that will have to be my river.
This weekend I’m going to slap my wife on the ass as she walks by, because she understand the spirit in which it is meant: both ironically and because I really love her ass.
This weekend I will be in the midst of conversation, and a cliché will truly be called for. I will fight the urge to say the clichéd thing, then relax, and let it come out – but at the last millisecond, I’ll change it to something better.
This weekend I will plant the willow tree I got for Tessa for our 9th anniversary. Or actually, we won’t, because that’s a lot of work. I will also ask my brother Sean to help me put the floor on the treehouse I’m building for Lucy and Barnaby, and he’ll say yes, but we probably won’t do that either.
This weekend I plan on being content, on having an overall sense of well-being, of casting away those long, awful August days I had as a kid, wracked by free-floating anxiety, and instead, just float and have the day I was supposed to have all along.
Monet’s willow tree