Looking north on the river, there was a solitary rowboat, way out in the distance and a long way from anywhere. It could have been Arturo, but she knew it wasn’t. All by itself, it made the river appear a lonely place, and she felt a certain melancholy that she was at a loss to explain.
“Might be Arturo,” she said to herself, but knew it wasn’t. Arturo had a certain pace to his rowing, a cadence that she knew by heart and one that was more relaxed than this person’s, whoever it was. Arturo maintained that a rowboat only went so fast, no matter what, and any extra effort was wasted. What was important was catching the right tide. The right tide, according to Arturo, was every bit as important as the right woman. With the right tide, one could let it do all the work and coast . . . What a world class rascal that man is, she thought to herself―she was missing him.
From Pia.
The image is actually a watercolor by Carla Thibodeau. Some of her watercolors are fantastic, especially the ones with water in them.
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One thought on “Missing him . . .”
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