Parasail.
Conjugate Latin verbs.
Tell ghost stories.
Weep.
Trace hands into turkeys.
Watch The Sound of Music.
Drive to Cooperstown in pouring rain, trading baseball statistics for 680 miles, plotting which players’ cards to buy, which to trade.
Get henna tattoos.
Trade halves of “Best Friends” necklace.
Ghostwrite tell-all memoir.
Drive overnight to Canton, Ohio to Football Hall of Fame, tell story of meeting Terry Bradshaw’s family in Maui. (Beautiful daughters.)
Sit on roof at sunset.
Share cab, plate of calamari, milkshake.
Irrigate dusty remote village.
Sing duet, harmony, or high register.
Cough up $18 admission at Canton, play touch football on grounds, apologize for rough play, ripped jersey.
Fix leaky sink.
Buy ingredients for German chocolate cake.
Accompany to doctor’s office.
Learn to insert IV line.
Drive two days to Springfield, Massachusetts, balk at $16.99 ticket to Basketball Hall of Fame, storm to car, kick tires, kick self, yell, regret yelling, sit alone in car, sigh, cross parking lot on foot, offer conciliatory ice cream, tentative hug.
Gaze at Orion, hunter of the night sky.
Break devastating news gently.
Learn to inject medication into IV line.
Core two bags of apples, make cobbler for funeral luncheon.
Cancel day trip to Baltimore; Lacrosse Hall of Fame closed July 3.
Remember too late: Volleyball Hall of Fame located 7 miles from Springfield, in Holyoke.
Exchange glance of mutual understanding. Knowledge is something less
than power. This clock’s run out
on trips.