A couple weeks back, someone, somewhere, spoke of a bucket – an imaginary bucket they placed on their head. Kind things filled it. Unkind dumped it.
Memorial Day weekend, Peter and I went up North. Sam was on a canoe trip. I gave the bucket a try. It’s actually not hard to find kind things to say to Peter. I guess you could just say it’s not necessarily always (sometimes – maybe – I hope) my M.O.
We ran-hiked Welch & Dickey – the popular 4.7 mile loop that summits two 2500+ footers up in Thornton, New Hampshire. (It seems this mid-Spring spree may be becoming a tradition for us.) I, being less in shape than Peter, was breathing hard. Peter was breathing easy. Opportunity. I complimented him on his easy breathing. By the end, my bucket felt pretty full – no dumpage. Felt good.
After lunch in the kitchen we basked in the sun, outside on our patio, reading. (Actually, I basked – Peter faced away. Good judgment, Husband! Bucket time.) When he showed signs of heading inside, I looked over. Opportunity. Peter was wearing red sweat pants, a mustard yellow long sleeve shirt, purple pullover fleece, and an attractive indigo cap. I smiled.
“You’re so colorful, Honey.”
Bucket – full to the brim.
“And I’m not talking personality.”
Damn that bucket.