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On the nineteenth of September we decided to go for a picnic.
It's not quite cold yet, the aboriginal forest of Quebec has just started to
turn into hues of ruby and amber. Did you make the hollandaise? I'll
make the crepes. Gather the long thin spears of asparagus that were
cut from the garden, they always were such weeds weren't they?
I think I still have some lemon curd and biscuits leftover from a fortnight ago.
You're wearing your old wool cardigan, a faded shade of burgundy and a bit torn,
but your dark flaxen hair and subtle deep brown eyes complement it well.
We drive your slightly rusted mini cooper to the oak boat by the lake while listening to
Hidden In Plain View, some old emo band no one ever listened to {just wait and
you'll see you're everything I want...}.
It's feels kind of cool by the shore, the mist rises over the water; all white and silver.
The only sounds are from the various waterfowl and the frogs.
So I row you to that island we like to frequent, past the lily pads and the willow
trees. Benjamin in the front nesting in his wicker creel, you in the back holding
onto your quilt, but you're no Lady of Shalott, we have each other.
Into the cove and under the birch I tie up the boat. I have the basket and the
creel with Benjamin poking his little pink bunny nose out, you have the blankets
and the wine bota.
So we lay the old gaelic covers down and watch the water crest to the shore.
The meal is not too full nor too scant, but perfectly filling. The scene is something
Peter Kalm might have written in some ancient text long forgotten.
The soft west wind flutters the trees and Sol shines its life-giving rays upon us.
Benjamin indifferently nibbles the alfalfa and parsnips, although his favorite
activity is snuggling between the two of us.
As I row back to the mainland I see a crane fly past, life goes on. Tomorrows
another day, another day in our small cottage where our only connection to
the outside is through some BSD system, DragonFly I think.
You light the frankincense and I'll boil the pudding, tonight we have a brandy sauce.
The sun gives weigh to a purple red canvas; the wood shutters open with no screen,
it's a warm Autumn night. We lay upon the leather love seat and drift off to sleep.
The red Moroccan lantern burns out, completely dark and silent just you and me.
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