Let me tell you about the Eel River at nine in the morning on the Fourth of July.
My husband had set us up close enough to the water that I could hear it moving through the rocks before I even opened my eyes. Clear water. Actually clear — not "oh it's fine" clear but I can see the tiny fish playing near the shore clear. The morning was cool the way California mornings are cool when the sun is out but hasn't committed yet. Nobody was there. No fireworks crowd, no chaos, no lineup of people doing the most. Just us. Just the river. Just the sound of water that had somewhere to be and wasn't in a hurry to get there.
He set all of this up. He found the spot, parked the RV, positioned us just right. This is what he does. He finds beautiful things and puts me next to them.
I sat there and thought: I could cry. This is so nice. I cannot believe this is my life.
And then, because my brain is my brain, a 44-year-old man-child walked into my peaceful river morning and sat down uninvited.
Not physically. He wasn't there. But he was there. You know what I mean.