Why Did You Not Tell Me

Three women friends, riding in a golf cart, an arboretum journey. The sky was overcast, the mood jubilant, we were ready for fun. A reverence and sacred silence met us as we entered the park. There were ten different gardens, named, with plaques. Daises and bleeding heart, stood proudly and primly. This was a well-planned excursion to a magical place. It did not disappoint – massive sculptures were plaqued and signed. I took photos from my seat in the back, facing where we had gone, Not where we were going. I had volunteered for this rumble seat. One raindrop felt charming to me. I announced it. We laughed about it, at the same time, on watch. Lightning meant we would have to take the golf cart back. One drop turned a rapid, unexpected rain storm. There was no way to stay dry back here or up front. The canopy designed for sun was no challenge for the water that pounded us. Tell me if you are getting too wet, the driver said. We laughed, announcing how wet we already were, not wanting to turn back, Wanting to see everything. We were getting soaked but it was worth it.