Morning in Maine

[moonwise]

Stillness. The loons are calling over the lake. The water is as smooth as glass, and mist rises from it in the cold air of morning. The sun has just broken over the mountain, and sparkles of deep gold dance over the water. It is beautiful and heartbreaking at once. The cars lie covered in dew, and the shadows of bags and packages in the seat are a mute testament to the nature of the day. As they have done so many days before, feet thump over the carpet of pine needles and twisted roots down to the lakeshore, out onto the creaky gangplank, to the dock. Hands reach for the crystal water, and the morning still is shattered by fingers reaching out for one last touch. Salt water joins fresh, but only the fish will notice.

The still, gentle morning heralds a new day, but for some the day has ended; it is time to go home. The cottage is empty, the cupboards bare, the soft beds stripped and tucked down for the next person. The escape is over, and reality breaks as coldly as the breath of fading night on bare arms in short sleeves.

Engines roar to life, the inexorable pull of tires up a dirt road, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Next year is a faint and uncertain promise. The greatest wish of a heart, oh please, turn back! just one more day, is quelled by the necessity of responsibility and the knowledge that everything ends, everything is fleeting, enjoy what you have while you can.

No comfort, and bitter tears flow as the car turns its way south.