I may have mentioned this once or twice, but I do so love summer. The smells, sounds, sunshine and yes, even the humidity. Although my hair reaches a whole new level of mockery, I still sit on my porch every night watching the kids play in the yard and hoping that winter is late this year.
The air has a substance, a tangible thing that caresses much like the way a hand runs that smooth path down a woman’s side, over and around her hips, velvet skin under warm fingertips.
I’ve noticed a longing this summer for a bit more. Beach. Even the ball of fire has asked several times when we can go to the beach again. Next weekend, mom?
For a girl born and bred in the Midwest, I have a strange longing for water. Lakes will do in a pinch to lull me with the rocking slap against the hull. But Valhalla is beach front.
I’ve heard it said that the ocean has no memory. I need that forgetfulness this year. A place to dunk my head and confess all my worst fears and frailties. Wash them away and start again, salty but fresh.
Lovecraft said, “But more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean.”
Depth. Quiet. Peace. Coffee on the porch, drinks by the waves and freckles for all. Who’s with me?!
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