"Wow, look!" you said as Jet dragged you through Central Park. You were pointing to something in the tree that was there before our obnoxious puppy barked and scared him away. I unfolded the blanket I was carrying underneath my arm and spread it out over a patch of grass with the sun shining (not too bright) over us. I unpacked the basket and put a perfectly made turkey sandwich in front of where you sat, and a salad in front of my self. "This is delicious!" you told me, pulling off a little piece of turkey and throwing it toward Jet, who's leash was tied to the tree that provided partial shade.
We finished our meal and threw away our trash, clearing off the blanket. I lay on the left, you on the right. We took off our shoes and socks (though most of the time, you didn't wear them) and we intertwined our feet. Our hands leisurely rested on our torsos, my hand holding yours tightly.
We did that every Sunday afternoon. In the rain, in the snow-our shoes stayed on in the colder temperatures- and whatever other form weather. It was a tradition that wouldn't be broken. You and I needed that. It was something to hold on to.
Even when you were gone I still made my way up that stubborn hill, next to the same tree and laid on the same, blue blanket. I laid on the left side, the only thing occupying the right was my open hand.
Because I needed something to hold on to.