Wednesday Picnics

Once upon a time, there was a lovely man who told me he loved me. He was kind and sweet and smelled of the rain. My favorite part of his face was his beard, which was scratchy enough to look a little gruff, but not so overgrown as to make him seem unkempt. His hair was dark, half-waved, half-curled, and it fell just a fraction below his ears (which sometimes embarrassed him because they were a bit on the large side). I thought he was, in fact, a very handsome man.

On Wednesday afternoons, we liked to walk to the park downtown and eat a picnic lunch. He always brought the sandwiches; I brought the crackers and cheese, plus a banana for him and an apple for me. If it was cold, I packed a thermos of soup and a mug of hot water for tea. I brought a blanket, too, but he usually wrapped himself around me so I wouldn’t be cold.

I remember him as being a very warm-bodied man. Sometimes I dreamed I’d run into him in a snow-storm and he’d be wearing just a shirt and shorts—no coat, no hat, no gloves—and yet, taking my hand, he’d feel so warm I’d forget it was a winter’s day.

This sounds silly and small, but he loved little things like that, and I did, too.

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