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 (which you so magnanimously purchased with your almost maxxed out credit card and for which I am still grateful as now, back at home, the weather’s changed and it is now 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, protecting 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 unfold.  You in your continent and me in mine.

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

The last few roses of summer have finished blooming.

And I have photos to remember you by.


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

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