It’s Sunday and we all know what that means! Time to steer your family into a boat and out into the middle of Lake Unnamed, the lake that has yet to be named or put on any map.
“There’s no lake there,” say the map-makers, shivering and afraid of what they’ve seen of our beloved lake, where cold hands stretch above the surface on Sundays. The whole family can paddle about, shaking hands with the water-logged residents of the deep. Nice to see you, nice to see you.
Sure, sometimes the cold wet hands tug an elderly relative whose handshake has grown weak out of the boat and into the dark water, but little is lost. After all, we can see Gran or Gramps next Sunday, their familiar fingers now pushed above the water’s lip with all the others, waiting for our return.