I sit in the far back of the boat as we slip through the water, out of the cove and into the belly of the lake. Usually there would be music. Maybe Talking Heads or Aerosmith. Y&T until I complain mercilessly and someone puts on Fleetwood Mac instead. But today it’s just the sound of the water parting around us and our own aimless conversation. We’ve already had the hard conversations today. We’ve covered chemo and stress and how to unravel generations of toxic thought. I have tried to ignore that his eyes look different, smaller and sadder. He shows me his fingernails that have grown out for the first time since my childhood. He has quit drinking and started meditating. He is a man determined to cure himself of this incurable cancer. Only right now I can’t handle the relentless positivity. I’m just not there yet. I want to cry and wallow and pity us all, even just for a day. But for his sake, I don’t go there.
We putter along the shore past the more imposing houses. The poplar leaves have turned completely and the now-yellow aspen dance at their reflection in the water. A flock of coots shuffle awkwardly away from the boat. It’s not hard to imagine that today is like any other we’ve spent drifting on the lake. But really, it’s not. It’s not the same. For now, I can hold that knowledge for safe keeping. I will put on my happy face if that’s what he needs.