My husband veers off onto some unpaved back road in a blind attempt to reach the banks of the Mississippi River.
My youngest wants to dip her toes into it.
“What are you doing?” I cry out.
“I hope this takes us to the river,” he says as we wind deeper into marshy lands filled with white cranes and turtles.
I’m imagining Mark Twain and steamboats. I’m also aware that this is exactly the sort of wild behavior we would have embarked upon in our younger, more romantic days. Alright then. Take me to the river!
The landscape opens, and we’re there.
All these years later, we still have some spontaneity and adventure in us.
Twain would have applauded.