A couple days ago, my husband Zach and I were taking a walk, which we hadn’t done in over a week because we’ve both had a horrible cold. It was a mild day, and as we walked by the Missouri River, it gleamed silver and a fresh breeze washed over us. It was a fine day for a walk. It was a fine day to be alive.
Without warning, I burst out, “Zachary, we need to hike another trail!”
He chuckled. I grinned sheepishly. I weighed my motivation and found it similar to the way I would always say, on trail, “I wish I could go home.” It was a temporary feeling, one that I couldn’t help but express— but, ultimately, I didn’t mean.
I didn’t really mean this either.
I think.
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