Sometimes, when I workout late, I come home after dark. The long meandering road follows the peaceful Richelieu river for 20 km and it's about the only time I'm not even tempted to exceed the speed limit. My body is tired, my mind is at peace and I'm alone on the dark road along the silvery water.
And sometimes, once home, a quick glimpse shows me a very empty bed in my son's room. I know where to find him. I take off my T-shirt because it's soaked and cold and sticky. And then I gently unearth the small bump from underneath my bed cover. He's full of sleep and just hangs his arms around my neck while I carry his long body against mine. His skin is soft and warm against my cold, clammy one. I slip him in his bed, trying not to drop him because he's getting heavy and he usually mumbles last minute instructions that don't correspond to anything.
Tonight I'm quietly sad and the source of my sadness will not go away soon. I'll take my sadness along the peaceful road, in the darkness, by the river, and it will become part of what is. Just. What. Is.
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