The repurposed barge pushed us along the Seine. Intermittent raindrops peppered the river and gave way to the as-advertised romanticism that surrounded us. The cool air was tempered by the moment: we were exactly where she wanted us to be. We smiled as we took pictures, not for what was in the frame but for the littered images that passed behind us.
Patches of blue sky poked out from heavy clouds and the underside of bridges passed overhead. I remembered the day that our moment was born. My sister and I were with her, then. We splashed in the water; she planned it all out and talked about the trip like it had already happened. She wanted us there, together, on the Seine.
Our wake slapped water against the graffiti stained walls. A lanky family waved at us as they hurried along the slick bank towards another attraction. We waved back. I’m usually not sure what propels people to wave at complete strangers, but I like that it generally involves a boat. On that day, I had no doubt why we all waved back to the family on the Seine. We were exactly where she wanted us to be. And just maybe because we knew that, we smiled as we took pictures not for what passed behind beneath us but for what welcomed us ahead.