An impression… an assumption… a premonition…



Yesterday morning I took a break
from homework and life to drive to a small little town not to far from here and
shared a wonderful breakfast and crossword puzzle with my husband. The weather
was brisk, but not entirely brutal and the trees in brilliant display. After breakfast
we walked the sidewalks and rummaged through old hardware stores and kitschy
boutiques that boasted times gone by and times to come and I was glad for the distractions.

I was also happy because Charley had
spoken to R and I have dearly missed his input of late. I know you think I am
dogged and down right annoying about securing the identity of the fourth in
flannel, but you do not understand. Already I have mapped these men from
misdemeanor to manslaughter and so I must be precise and certain of my
information as it becomes the eventual tool of their demise.

The dead; helpful as they are sometimes like to walk around the
ball field before they make the final pitch and while I appreciate their
deliberations and need to show me the journey… some days I just want definitive
information without all the esoteric blatherings that might come with it. That
being said, I decided to stall in my advance and remain in my bubble a bit longer.

With hot coffee to go,
we drove the remaining countryside, weaving in and out of weathered glen and bucolic
bliss… and then in an effort to suspend the moment further, I slipped the ’Stang down
another back road that I knew would end into the drive of a home we have been
considering for a while as alternative to the yellow house. Mostly because we do not know
if it will still be available when the month for action arrives, and I am
determined to have a back-up contingency in place.


While I still prefer the yellow house
on the hill, there is something equally intriguing about this little house on
another hill not to far away that has captured my imagination. Small, too small
in fact for the herd of furniture I bring with me wherever I go… it rises
sweetly above a craggy shoreline of blackened rock and gnarled roots before,
toying with the treetops and a marvelous view of the water below. Shingled and
stacked, it is more contemporary than the other home and speaks more to privacy
and seclusion than family and fusion.

It is not a social abode, but there is
something about its long and withered driveway… its subliminal submersion into
the foliage and fauna that looms above a staggered path that breaks into a
sweeping beach of golden sand that has captured my sense of mystery and need
for independence. My husband of course champions its configuration and its
miniscule mortgage and sees it as a way to buffer us from world and worry. He
calls it cozy, and while it has windows galore I wonder in the end if it might
not suffocate me without intention to do so.


Still, I am called to be judicious
and divine what will work now and in the future, for in the future we are as
two, but could be one and that one will be responsible for all that must be handled.
As I stood with jacket zipped and hood engaged, I watched the waters whip below
and saw a curious sight… An otter of considerable size who dipped between the swells of the waves and
poked his nose here and there with great joy to be out and about without human

From the lofty perch of a sullen deck, I watched his water
ballet for more than fifteen minutes and thought to myself…is this the kind
of life I could endear? Could this smaller slice of sky and broader scope of
shoreline, tucked within the privacy of wooded wonder be just what the doctor
ordered? Was wide open and expansive just obligation and invitation to constant
interruption or invasion? Or was there comfort in securing more space to redefine
oneself and accommodate others as they passed in and out of your reality?


Desperate for another point of reference… I walked down to the shore and crossed under
the bough of a tree and across to the beach at the water’s edge. The waves lapped
at the rocky border with arrogance, ignoring my presence and I knew that they would do
so regardless of who stood in my shoes. It was both irreverent and assuring at
the same time to know that the wind, the water and the mystery could co-exist,
defining one another without obscuring one another.

From the shore below, the
house was impressive…solid and eclipsed. Like the house in Hansel and Gretel
its shingled facade spoke of sweet interlude and assumptive joys…but there at
the shore with waves beating the sand and nature’s ragged breath thrashing limbs
about like broken rag dolls… I wondered if there was another reason it was
calling to me.

An impression… an assumption… a premonition.

It made me

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