This evening my hubby and I relaxed at our hexagonal picnic table on our lakeside deck. There were no boats on the lake, so it was very quiet and peaceful when he said, “What’s that on your leg?”
I was sprawled next to him on the bench in jean shorts with one leg cris-crossed over the other as he sat next to me. “What?”
“Those dots.”
“What dots?” My reverie had been broken, and I wasn’t sure why.
He poked my leg as if to document them. “Right here. And there.”
“I don’t feel anything. Is it a rash?”
“No.”
“Well, what IS it, then?”
“I guess they’re just little moles,” he said with continued scrutiny. “Right there. And there. And in a row, there.”
“And so?”
“I just didn’t know what they were doing, making a pattern like that.”
“A pattern like WHAT?”
“Well, they look like…”
“Like WHAT?”
“Like the Big Dipper. With the ladle here…” He poked four times.
“Oh sure.”
“And the handle here…” He poked three more times.
“Nice.”
Meanwhile the leaves of the giant oak shimmered above me with sunlight reflected from the lake. They seemed to laugh playfully from their lofty position – a challenge to focus on life through childlike eyes.
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