EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALDecember 24, 1998
Arbonne
Cote Basque
Christmas Eve
I’m floating down a smooth river, my feet straddled in two small
boats. One boat is old and worn but sturdy and comfortable. The other boat is strange and
interesting, beautifully made and welcoming. If the boats drift too far apart, I will fall
into the river and float away with the current.
It’s strange to think of my family gathered at home without me. My
old Tug experience of Christmas is a deeply ingrained and wonderfully contented ritual. I
join my brothers in their pajamas and we reenact our childhood. The chugging days at
Beckett Road with my parents and brothers require no restoration or maintenance. The Tug
is my understanding of family happiness.
Rich floats by reason of craftsmanship, travelling effortlessly with
the gleaming flash of a sunlit paddle. His vessel is calm, and entire, and artful in its
purity. Bliss blossoms in its perfection. This canoe invites a duet and nurtures
partnership. It is versatile and explores new territory with an agile design. It is
lightness and carries potential.
The river shines and ripples with shallow pools and dynamic currents.
The strain of steadying subsides in the splendour of scenery. Mostly I’m looking
ahead.
It’s Christmas Eve and we lie next to one another in a silent,
rural house at the edge of a glowing mountain range, skirted by hundreds of tiny, jeweled
fields. Our night abides without a care. His eyes are deep and familiar, his hair is
downy-smooth on the pillowcase. His arms ask a question and I’m no longer wistful in
my reply.
