Today I remembered when you wlere six, the first time we crested the hill that rolled Kachemak Bay into breath-taking forms, water & sky & blue glaciers, tall sandy bluffs.
We combed the beach for driftwood, kayaked in quiet coves told stories ’round a ring of fire. Our house was empty for a while when you boys left (years ago) to investigate the wider world, try on new ways of being, craft lives you could call your own.
California, Europe, Oregon, Montana…you explored this shiny penny called world, and then one day, with your hearts full and satisfied, you came back. To raw memories. To strange hours of daylight. To worn river rock and tall green trees.
Today long trails of grey clouds create their own rhythm & light singing a pure song, a remembered song of pricking ocean smells, damp sand, faithful old friends and vibrant new loves.
All the while, we excavate dreams on a bar napkin, sketch out rooms and plans, where to build for the best Bay view, how groundwater burrows and drains. Your dreams entwine with ours (yes, we still have them at age 62) and though the day is grey we synch our senses, approach a renewed state of mind, toast our precious connections and raise our cups to the sky, catching rain.