Whenever KC and I drive around the lake, which is often, since we live two miles up the road from it, we marvel at its colors. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes teal, turquoise, gray, sometimes glassy, sometimes full of chop and whitecaps. Every time we look, it’s different.
Sunday, on our way to church, the lake was a light celery color, dramatically marbled with steel grays and murky browns. The water was quite smooth, but not glassy, and it was pocked with tiny splotches of shadow, which was odd because the sun shone directly on it.
“That’s weird,” I said. “The water should be sparkly. The sun is shining all over it, but instead of making sparkles, it’s making dark spots that look like itty speckles of sand.”
“That is weird,” KC agreed. “I wonder why it’s making shadows?”
“I don't know. It's making anti-sparkles,” I said. “The opposite of sparkles.”
“Interesting. Now all we need is a word for them. You can’t just call them ‘anti-sparkles.’”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because,” he replied.
“Oh,” I said.
"So what would be the opposite of sparkles?” he asked.
I spent a moment in deep, relevant thought.
"I know!” I cried. “We’ll call them ‘Narkles!’”
"Good job, Wease,” he said.
'Why thank you,” I replied. “Being clever is one of my many talents."
"Give me narkles or give me death!” I said. “To err is human; to narkle divine!”
KC rolled his eyes and we finally arrived at church.
"Get thee to a narkery!”
KC ignored me.
“Get behind me, Narkles?”
We got out of the car and the conversation ended.
I guess that’s the way the narkles crumble. You narkle some, you lose some.
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