Hot Water Dropped

The docks of imagination as seen from the upper deck of a steam paddlewheel boat.

Hot water dropped on me from the steam stack I leaned against. The warm Florida sun was hot enough without the droplets of condensing steam peppering my bald spot and shoulders. As long as I could ignore it, I did.

Watching from this perch, the moment didn’t escape me. This discomfort of the hot water near burning me didn’t spoil a thing. On the deck of a steam paddlewheel boat, I watched the scenery float by.

Across the river of imagination, in the distance, the manor stood. No different than it stood at any other point in its history. But it was something different to me. A childhood imagining growing as the span between me and it diminished.

A thousand miles away from where I ever imagined myself, I rested my elbows on the wooden rail. The one who traveled with me pressed against my side, making the moment of simultaneous wonder and contentment.

We smiled at it. Marveled and bemused by our existence in its visage. Together we shared. An imagination made reality as all dreams yawned into the daylight. It was a marking that we live in a created world. And that our charge within that creation was to bring our dreams into the rays of the sun.

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