We walk early in the morning, sun bright in our faces the wind on our backs. I am suddenly charmed by this little town, its charm more evident by the slowing down and taking it in step by step. I take the time to notice the water and the small shed under the embankment, and I find my hands itching to watercolor paint, though it is by no means my medium of choice. As we walk he takes my big strong hand into his own, it feels good to hold a hand bigger than my own, stronger than mine. I take in his profile and the smile wrinkles all around his eyes, I tease him unmercifully which makes him laugh as his cheeks get rosy in the headwind. He takes me to show me the magnolia trees he has planted all along his property, and the robin’s nest in the top of the maple, not a sapling and not yet a tree. The nest has robin egg blue yarn and dryer lint and pieces of plastic string in it. I tell him my family tradition of planting a tree for the deceased, he says he likes that tradition. We go over to Fair Haven State Park. The wind is strong, two buzzards dance on it, the waves crash hard on the beach. He stops so I can take photos, my own face chapping in the wind, my long hair whipping my face, my down vest is cozy and my heart feels warm. When I turn around he is watching me, and for a second I feel self conscious, but it passes, as though it was a mote of sand. As we walk back to the car he opens the door for me. He makes no show of it, it is done with no quest for thanks and when I do thank him, he laughs and asks for what.
For what is there though simple is good, is great, because when it was not, it was awful. I give thanks for this one day. It feels like the first chapter of a book that promises to be good.
He tells me, I think we are on the same page.