There was water.
We met outside, doing our part to stop the spread, two hours from our house and two hours from theirs: built a fire in the grate next to the picnic shelter at the Thurston County public park under the leaky canopy we brought ourselves; and the water-- beating on the shelter roof, puddling on the paths, pooling in the saggy canopy until it filled and splashed out all at once like a bucket at a water park, sheeting a sudden wall of water between the picnic tables and the makeshift hot dog kitchen, and after lunch, when we walked to the beach, dripped down our necks, soaked the fronts of our pants, liquified the path under our sodden feet, rushed down the hill in rivulets making a vast swamp that flooded the beach leaving only a strip of sand between flood water and salt water —even all that water, though it made our visit so brief (and so wet), just long enough to scarf sausages, exchange gifts, scuttle to the Sound, and jump back into our cars for the two hour return journey through the darkening mist, could not drown the joy of seeing each other again.
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