The Last of Summer Roses—Postcards to You

Just a short while ago, here we were, in our camp chairs, wrapped in our matching parkas from LL Bean. You so magnanimously purchased them with your almost maxxed out credit card and I am still grateful, as now, back at home, the weather’s changed and it is raining.

Cranberry Islands floated not far from our blue and gold spot. A trio of pleasure craft  (one handy, the other two less skillful) navigated the currents and winds. We reflected as to how we’d set out on this trip with no reservations and had gone from good to better as we ventured up the coast to reach this comfortable place.

Remember how this lady sat vigilant for hours on her cooler, surveying her progeny in the roll and flush of the cold tides near Bath?

Remember the mer-people we so happily sculpted? One for me and one for you? Near, but separate. A metaphor for how our lives now unfold.  You in your continent and me in mine. A globalized relationship that we didn’t ask for, but put up with so that our progeny have food to eat and can thrive.

I imagine that beaches—our beaches—have now emptied in the few days since we left.

The last few roses of summer have finished blooming. Fall is here.

And I have photos to remember you by.

9 thoughts on “The Last of Summer Roses—Postcards to You

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