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  • It was Labor Day and we worked that day.
    We hung the doors on the cabinet and argued about why we had not finished the work before now.
    We argued about why we could not think straight.

    Then we went to the lake and paddled with the speed and grace of the ancients.
    We paddled with eagles, three, in the sky above us.
    We stopped, for a moment, to hear the loons call.

    Lunch was ready by the time we arrived at the benches.
    My Father manned the grill there, by the lake.
    We made peace with the world and literally ate with relish because we were eating Hot Dogs.
    Then we paddled again with my mother and an old and aging family friend, we helped her into her boat and then motion of the water rocked our souls.

    Back on shore my Father was writing another story at the park picnic table, on a pad of paper.

    We said our goodbyes, and see you in a couple of days.

    Then we went back home and worked for a couple more hours.
    It was Labor Day and we worked at the glorious life of the self-employed.
    Finished hanging the cabinet doors, brushed on a last coat of shellac, buff and wax,
    Shipped out with us the next day.

    “How long have I been here?” my Father asked us from his bed at the hospital.
    We told him, reminded him what had happened since Thursday last.
    “The last thing I remember was our picnic at the lake,” he said, “What a great day that was.”

    It was memorable, lingering, and evanescent, like our souls.
    Our souls like lightning bugs in June.
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