The Shroud of Fog

Fog not only comes on little cat feet, it rolls around in the memories inside our brain,

We can barely see the glimmer of springs or glorious summer days in the past,

Photos only document but do nothing else

The written word can recall glory days

We were all young once and oh so brave,

Courage has been relegated to  a glint

Joy is certainly an individual process

a glance, a mesmerizing color, swing and nod,

In tune with a non-existent song,

A flower, brilliant sunshine , smelly soil, 

The post-it notes of God

Bagging Home

There is something about going  home that is comfortable.  Slipping off  all the cares  and stresses of the world to be a child again.  Life can be so….

My husband’s mother’s funeral was still in recent memory and I needed a safe haven.  The beach was it.  I remember right after my dad’s funeral it was a welcome respite.  Our dear friends owned a beach house and we headed there for a wild Labor Day weekend of healing and early bedtimes. 

Catching up was done under the stars sipping wine and enjoying dinner and slapping mosquitos; at least I could still attract something.  The early mornings were spent on the beach looking at the sun’s reflection in the water and reflecting a bit myself.  So many memories and years ago-my mother-in-law had walked this very beach, so had my son and daughter. 

I keep coming back time and again.  It is like returning home and running the bases and feeling that age old exhilaration of something akin to winning; bagging home.