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We strolled as young lovers through the park on the night of our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. An inconvenient cover of clouds had stolen from us the dream of a moonlit walk beneath a sky full of stars. But we would make do with what the good Lord had provided.
The threatening rain had chased away the more casual strollers. The winding path through the maples was ours and ours alone. Oh, there was an owl keeping watch on the tall maple beside the statue of some founding father. There was a band of racoons scouring the trash cans near the picnic benches. A stray cat, a sizeable calico, was padding her way home from a night’s worth of mouse hunting. But outside of these regulars of the night shift in the city park, we were alone.
I wore my comfy denim shirt with the long sleeves half-rolled up; she wore that heather and grey wool sweater that cuddles her face. I wore my blue jeans now with a skoosh more room; she wore that tartan skirt with the fancy pleats. I wore my deck shoes and she wore her Capezios for I once was a minstrel and she once was a dancer. And in our middle age enchantment, we both still were.
We took our time walking this meandering lane, slowing to remember a memory to share, quickening to laugh and to chuckle ... and to be thankful that days such as those still brought us great joy.
We took our time living this hour of life, this hour that was twenty-five years in the making. Quietly moving, gently moving along this trail of old-fashioned street lights. First one on the right, then one on the left, alternating in turn the work of casting misty light upon the sidewalk. We would pass through a few steps of light and a few steps of dark, a few steps of light, a few steps of dark. That stroll we took that night got lost in the time that exists in the timeless realm, the realm known as lost in love.
I hope heaven has a quiet park where one can stroll in the gentle light of being in love. Yes, I would like that.
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