She was standing on the sidewalk where it dips down closest to the river, where there are steep stairs all the way down. There were bundles and a large, odd contraption at her feet.

Roxie and I were out for our morning walk, about an hour later than usual because Roxie is getting older and on some days, it takes a bit to get in the mood to go outside.

As we got closer, I could read the letters on the contraption: KAYAK. It was a foldable boat, made of something that looked like white corrugated plastic. The woman’s head was bent to her phone.

Roxie and I walked on, to the circle of grass she has decided is the most desirable place to leave her morning deposit. The grass is always wet, so I wear the sandals I call my water shoes, the Keens I first bought when Trent and I got our kayaks.

Waiting on Roxie, I glimpsed a yellow helmet through the trees, gliding with the current. It was Paddlefest, the annual Cincinnati event that closes the Ohio River to all motorized watercraft on the first Saturday in August, from 6AM to noon.

I have a paddle. It sits in my storage room, in the back corner, the marigold blades dulled with dust and webs. When Trent died and the kayaks and canoe were taken away, I gave Trent’s paddle and life vest to Justin, who was there when Trent went down. I eventually donated my life vest and wet bags, but kept the paddle. It was a Bending Branches and I loved using it. The bends in the handle made it easy to hold and it was light, easy to handle.

The paddle has been wet once in the last 18 years, at Paddlefest 2022. It’s spent most of its time in garages and storage rooms. I’ve taken many things to Goodwill but couldn’t take the paddle. It needed to go to someone who would appreciate it, who would use it.

As Roxie and I headed back home, we passed the woman on the sidewalk, looking at the road, clearly waiting for a ride. I doubled back.

“Could you use a paddle?”

“Yes.”

I liked her voice. Forthright. “I have a paddle, if I got it—I live in that brick building right there—and gave it to you, could you use it?”

“I would make good use of it.”

Roxie and I got the paddle. We met the woman walking toward us—her ride had arrived.  She introduced herself as Sarah.

Walking away, I thought about how I had planned to go to Paddlefest this year to swing by the Sierra Club tent and donate the paddle, but Paddlefest is crazy and parking is nuts and I stayed home.

I walked home thinking about the miracle: Roxie stayed in bed extra long. For some reason, the woman got off the river midway through the trip, either planned or a problem. I eventually remembered the paddle in storage. She wanted it.

When Roxie and I got home, I started crying. It surprised me but probably shouldn’t have. So I did what I do whenever wet grief shows up. I lit a candle and said the words I have said so often, but less often these past years:

I love you.

I miss you.

I’m sending you light and love.

I’m looking forward to seeing you again, but not yet. Not yet.

I love you Trent. I always will.

PS: I told Sarah the paddle had only ever been in the Muskegon River in Michigan. But I’d forgotten about the earlier Paddlefest. I’d also forgotten its maiden voyage on Tamarack Creek, the one I thought might kill us both. If you’d like to know more about that harrowing adventure, here’s the chapter from my memoir.

 Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for happy memories.