Warning: Mild blasphemy ahead. Though I maintain that God likes a good laugh.
At the other end of our not-too-long apartment building, in the window of a dwelling we've never seen from within, stood a yellow kayak.
The lights in this window were always on. A yellow substance was always there, leaning against the window and backlit in all its glory, a glowing blob of wonder for all on the street to see.
Dear Kayak, we did not know what you were at first. You were formless and unfamiliar. But in time, we recognized your shape and magnificence.
We began to say hello to it every night when we came home as we pulled in the driveway. Cries of "Hello, Kayak" and "Oh my God, there it is!" echoed through the car. We were in awe of its golden splendor and its eternal watchfulness on the brief road below.
One day, it was gone. A stark white wall was all that shone in that window up above.
We were shocked. Had the kayak left us for other climes, more worthy subjects? Was it out performing water-based miracles in turbulent rivers?
Days passed. We began to wonder if it would ever return. Had our Kayak abandoned us? But we kept our faith, and we were rewarded. One day, in the parking lot, there appeared an SUV. Atop it, held tightly by the bungee cords of love and hope, was the yellow kayak.
There was much rejoicing. And after a day or two of intense meditation atop the vehicle, the kayak resumed its rightful place in the window - albeit in a different corner of the room.
Kayak, by your light, we know we've come home.