GO BACK
They had never once finished it.
David Luna checked his watch for the fourteenth time since they'd parked. Fourteen. A good number. Divisible by seven, which was divisible by itself and one. He liked when numbers cooperated.
"Everyone ready?" David asked, already walking, Lily strapped to his chest in the carrier like a tiny, suspicious dictator.
His wife Michelle fell into step beside him.
"Dada," said Lily, eighteen months old and deeply unimpressed with forward motion.
"Yes, baby," David said.
"No."
"We just started."
"NO."
Behind them, six-year-old Max had already spotted his target: a cluster of mallards near the shore, blissfully unaware that a small human was about to dedicate the next hour to their surveillance.
"DUCKS," Max announced, pointing with his entire arm. "DUCKS DUCKS DUCKS."
The first half mile passed in what could generously be called silence.
David counted his steps. One thousand, two hundred and six. One thousand, two hundred and seven. The numbers stacked up in his brain like neat little boxes, pushing out the intrusive thoughts about work and that weird thing his boss said on Friday.
The Cowboys had lost again yesterday. The counting helped with that too.
Lily grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked.
"Bah," she said.
"I don't know what that means," David told her.
"BAH."
Michelle watched her children from her peripheral vision like a Cold War spy. Max was walking in a zigzag pattern for reasons known only to himself. Lily was trying to eat David's collar.
Normal. Probably.
Max had a system: if he could name every duck, the ducks would be his friends. This was simply how friendship worked.
"That one's Gerald," he told no one. "He's the boss duck."
Gerald did look rather authoritative.
"You doing okay, buddy?" Michelle called back to him.
"I'm doing DUCKS, Mom."
They hadn't reached the one-mile marker when the cracks started showing.
"Gerald is better than the Cowboys," Max announced.
David stopped walking.
"Max, buddy," Michelle said. "What did you just say?"
"Daddy says the Cowboys are bad. Gerald is good. So Gerald is better."
David turned to Michelle. "I never said that in front of him."
"You said it fourteen times yesterday," Michelle said. "He's always listening."
"Bah," Lily added, supportively.
"Gerald would win the Super Bowl," Max added, with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what the Super Bowl was.
"MAX."
David's step count had gotten disrupted when Lily grabbed his ear, and now the numbers felt wrong. Contaminated. He'd have to start over. One. Two. Three.
Lily's face began the slow scrunch that preceded disaster.
At mile one and a quarter - their personal record was mile one and a half - everything fell apart.
"I don't wanna walk anymore," Max announced, sitting down directly on the trail.
"Max, you can't just—" Michelle started.
"My legs are BROKE, Mom. Broke forever."
Lily, sensing weakness, began to cry. Not a big cry. A test cry.
David checked his watch. The numbers weren't helping anymore. Nothing was helping.
"Maybe Max has a point," David heard himself say.
Michelle stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"I just mean..." David ran a hand through his hair, jostling Lily, who escalated to a medium cry. "Why do we do this?"
"Because it's family time," Michelle said.
"But what does that MEAN?"
The question hung in the air like a particularly confrontational cloud.
"I count steps," David said quietly. "The whole time. That's why I come. It helps my brain not... spiral."
Michelle blinked. "You've never told me that."
"You've never asked."
"I thought you just really liked nature."
"Michelle, I'm from Houston. I think nature is aggressive. The only reason I moved here was for you and the Cowboys, and one of those has been a huge disappointment."
"Don't," Michelle said.
"Twenty-nine years, Michelle."
"DADA," Lily yelled, yanking his ear again.
Michelle sat down on a bench, suddenly exhausted.
"You know what I think about the whole time we're walking?" she said. "What if this is what he remembers? Every Sunday, forced march, everyone miserable. What if this is his core childhood memory of us?"
"That's..." David paused. "Okay, that's dark."
"We've done this fifty-two times and I don't think anyone's actually enjoyed it once."
Max looked up from the dirt. "I like the ducks."
"I know you like the ducks, buddy."
"I just wanna see the ducks," Max said. "And get ice cream. That's all I want forever."
David sat down next to Michelle, Lily finally quiet.
"You know why I thought we had to do this? The full loop, every Sunday?" He shook his head. "My parents never did stuff like this. So I thought good families finish the lake. Like it was a rule."
Michelle put a hand on his knee. "David. There's no rule."
"Yeah. I'm getting that now."
Max had crawled over to the edge of the trail and was waving at Gerald, who remained magnificently indifferent.
Lily had stopped crying and was now chewing on David's shirt with great concentration.
"Bah," she said, muffled.
They sat there - a family who'd been forcing themselves into a shape that didn't fit, finally seeing it clearly.
David started laughing first.
"We're so bad at this," he said.
"The worst," Michelle agreed.
"I'm not bad," Max said. "I'm good at ducks."
"Bah," Lily confirmed.
The next Sunday, they didn't walk the lake.
They parked near Gerald's territory and set up at a picnic table. David walked a slow loop with Lily, counting freely. Michelle just sat and watched Max with the ducks. Nobody felt guilty about anything.
They got ice cream first.
"Same time next week?" David asked.
"DUCKS," Max confirmed.
"Bah," said Lily.
Michelle leaned into David's shoulder. "This is better."
"Yeah," David said. "This is the actual thing."
Gerald watched them from the water, wholly unimpressed.
But he'd see them next Sunday. He always did.
White Rock Lake
By Jenny Ramirez
The Lunas had been attempting to walk the two-mile trail at White Rock Lake every Sunday for three months.
They had never once finished it.
David Luna checked his watch for the fourteenth time since they'd parked. Fourteen. A good number. Divisible by seven, which was divisible by itself and one. He liked when numbers cooperated.
"Everyone ready?" David asked, already walking, Lily strapped to his chest in the carrier like a tiny, suspicious dictator.
His wife Michelle fell into step beside him.
"Dada," said Lily, eighteen months old and deeply unimpressed with forward motion.
"Yes, baby," David said.
"No."
"We just started."
"NO."
Behind them, six-year-old Max had already spotted his target: a cluster of mallards near the shore, blissfully unaware that a small human was about to dedicate the next hour to their surveillance.
"DUCKS," Max announced, pointing with his entire arm. "DUCKS DUCKS DUCKS."
The first half mile passed in what could generously be called silence.
David counted his steps. One thousand, two hundred and six. One thousand, two hundred and seven. The numbers stacked up in his brain like neat little boxes, pushing out the intrusive thoughts about work and that weird thing his boss said on Friday.
The Cowboys had lost again yesterday. The counting helped with that too.
Lily grabbed a fistful of his shirt and yanked.
"Bah," she said.
"I don't know what that means," David told her.
"BAH."
Michelle watched her children from her peripheral vision like a Cold War spy. Max was walking in a zigzag pattern for reasons known only to himself. Lily was trying to eat David's collar.
Normal. Probably.
Max had a system: if he could name every duck, the ducks would be his friends. This was simply how friendship worked.
"That one's Gerald," he told no one. "He's the boss duck."
Gerald did look rather authoritative.
"You doing okay, buddy?" Michelle called back to him.
"I'm doing DUCKS, Mom."
They hadn't reached the one-mile marker when the cracks started showing.
"Gerald is better than the Cowboys," Max announced.
David stopped walking.
"Max, buddy," Michelle said. "What did you just say?"
"Daddy says the Cowboys are bad. Gerald is good. So Gerald is better."
David turned to Michelle. "I never said that in front of him."
"You said it fourteen times yesterday," Michelle said. "He's always listening."
"Bah," Lily added, supportively.
"Gerald would win the Super Bowl," Max added, with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what the Super Bowl was.
"MAX."
David's step count had gotten disrupted when Lily grabbed his ear, and now the numbers felt wrong. Contaminated. He'd have to start over. One. Two. Three.
Lily's face began the slow scrunch that preceded disaster.
At mile one and a quarter - their personal record was mile one and a half - everything fell apart.
"I don't wanna walk anymore," Max announced, sitting down directly on the trail.
"Max, you can't just—" Michelle started.
"My legs are BROKE, Mom. Broke forever."
Lily, sensing weakness, began to cry. Not a big cry. A test cry.
David checked his watch. The numbers weren't helping anymore. Nothing was helping.
"Maybe Max has a point," David heard himself say.
Michelle stared at him. "Excuse me?"
"I just mean..." David ran a hand through his hair, jostling Lily, who escalated to a medium cry. "Why do we do this?"
"Because it's family time," Michelle said.
"But what does that MEAN?"
The question hung in the air like a particularly confrontational cloud.
"I count steps," David said quietly. "The whole time. That's why I come. It helps my brain not... spiral."
Michelle blinked. "You've never told me that."
"You've never asked."
"I thought you just really liked nature."
"Michelle, I'm from Houston. I think nature is aggressive. The only reason I moved here was for you and the Cowboys, and one of those has been a huge disappointment."
"Don't," Michelle said.
"Twenty-nine years, Michelle."
"DADA," Lily yelled, yanking his ear again.
Michelle sat down on a bench, suddenly exhausted.
"You know what I think about the whole time we're walking?" she said. "What if this is what he remembers? Every Sunday, forced march, everyone miserable. What if this is his core childhood memory of us?"
"That's..." David paused. "Okay, that's dark."
"We've done this fifty-two times and I don't think anyone's actually enjoyed it once."
Max looked up from the dirt. "I like the ducks."
"I know you like the ducks, buddy."
"I just wanna see the ducks," Max said. "And get ice cream. That's all I want forever."
David sat down next to Michelle, Lily finally quiet.
"You know why I thought we had to do this? The full loop, every Sunday?" He shook his head. "My parents never did stuff like this. So I thought good families finish the lake. Like it was a rule."
Michelle put a hand on his knee. "David. There's no rule."
"Yeah. I'm getting that now."
Max had crawled over to the edge of the trail and was waving at Gerald, who remained magnificently indifferent.
Lily had stopped crying and was now chewing on David's shirt with great concentration.
"Bah," she said, muffled.
They sat there - a family who'd been forcing themselves into a shape that didn't fit, finally seeing it clearly.
David started laughing first.
"We're so bad at this," he said.
"The worst," Michelle agreed.
"I'm not bad," Max said. "I'm good at ducks."
"Bah," Lily confirmed.
The next Sunday, they didn't walk the lake.
They parked near Gerald's territory and set up at a picnic table. David walked a slow loop with Lily, counting freely. Michelle just sat and watched Max with the ducks. Nobody felt guilty about anything.
They got ice cream first.
"Same time next week?" David asked.
"DUCKS," Max confirmed.
"Bah," said Lily.
Michelle leaned into David's shoulder. "This is better."
"Yeah," David said. "This is the actual thing."
Gerald watched them from the water, wholly unimpressed.
But he'd see them next Sunday. He always did.
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