We left the kids at home.

We went here.

It sounded like this.

We took a long walk.

crawled through hidey holes

and down below the roots of things

to the narrow cliff edges

and teased each other about how we’d be so fucked if the other fell, because who wouldn’t believe it was murder

after 20 years.

We found secret spots with messages someone else had left.

We got take out and ate in the park

On the ride home, we discussed at length what should happen to our wedding cake when we died, so the kids weren’t burdened with chucking it.

We decided the first person to leave got to have it. If health regulations prohibited corpse & cake internment/incineration, the surviving party would barbecue it to ashes in the back yard, I declared.

“Can I bury it instead?” he asked.

I didn’t like the idea some animal might dig it up, lured by ancient fondant. It brings up moral quibbles: If one finds strewn cake in the aftermath, what is the procedure?

What if the animal partially ingests cake, but then barfs it up? (I mean, who wouldn’t, it’s probably disgusting) Or worse, what if our precious good luck charm littered the yard the next day, embedded in animal scat?

“However you want is fine by me.” I am a firm believer that the dead shouldn’t have power over the living.  If he wanted to take the known risks of burial? Well then. Good luck, buddy.

We showed the kids our 20 year old cake.

They were horrified.

Yet still wanted to eat a little.