Day Ten

This morning the grey settled on us like a blanket.  Day ten of our eleven-day stay.  Like a cool cloth on fevered skin, it eased the fury.  Nine days prior had been streaked with white sun, salted hair, heated cheeks.  Clunking sand toys, swooshing nets, cannonballs.  A whirring buzz.  Then today.  Balmy air and gentle skies broke, summons to gaze at the bottom of tidal pools, creep over mossed rocks, drink lavender skies.  Listen.  Even the kids moved slowly.  Watched the reel drag silver across green, while we mindlessly dipped fingers and toes. 

Tomorrow is day eleven.  We’ll tuck our memories and aching hearts deep into the bottom of a huge, bulky bag and head home into the August air.  Air that already licks us with fall.  We’ll wonder how it went both so fast, and so slow.  And all winter long, I will dream of that green pond water.  Liquid.  Warm.  Gleaming.