In my letter to Mary Ann today, I told her regretfully that there was not a Maine trip in my summer plans.
The pictures that rest inside my mind of the house she shares with Howie on the southern Maine coast is one of my fortunes in
this world. Knowing the ocean view from their kitchen sink, feeling the surprising smoothness of laying flat on one of the rock slabs that
permeate their "front yard", jumping Erika's favorite crevice while the waves thunderously crash underneath-- each of
these moments feels like a gift. The nights I've spent there over the past few summers, when we open the windows wide to fall asleep
to the ocean sound and I stay up late in the dim light reading passages from Mary Ann's vast library, were like falling outside of
every single responsibility into a spell of paradise.
But writing Mary Ann today, I realized it was the conversation I would miss the most. Pouring over photographs of a year full of
adventures, sharing histories in narrative, measuring the growth of grandchildren from pictures hanging on the refrigerator. I will miss
our raucous laughter over dessert and Erika's giggles from the next twin bed. Pure girlish fun. Innocent and sweet.
B and I visited the Maryland beaches yesterday to rush the surf and soak in sun, but it's not the same. He pointed toward
a tiny jetty of rocks and said that he'd heard somewhere that all beaches in the Northeast were covered in rocks. My mind wandered
to the Taylor's rocks, to those most simple earthly pleasures, and I began to tell him about Maine. It's not mine to share, but it's a
piece of me that I can give most generously to those who believe in untouched places and the peace they inspire.
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