A Weekend in Maine

What I want to remember about these days: The home where my husband grew up. The fields and brook he knew as a boy — where our children now love to explore. The way the field is alive — with the sound of insects and birds and cows. The way it smells — the tall grass and wildflowers, the sand and mud — all of it.

The relics of a family business — a life dedicated to the land and the creatures that serve it.

The frog collecting and dam building. The rope swinging and bike riding. The smiles and giggles of little ones — of cousins who are friends. So many little ones underfoot and out of doors and growing like the weeds in the field — how quickly they grow and change. How quickly it all changes.

The gentle flowers in a hard land. The flowers that bloom –though in winter you’re sure they never can or will.

I want to remember the view — the dirt road and mountain peaks. One of the places where I fell in love with my husband — where we dreamt together of the story we’re now telling. Of him walking hand-in-hand with our daughter down this same dirt road. Of watching our children grow up in the shadow of ourselves, in the shadow of our story and dreams.

These are the things I want to remember about our 4th of July weekend in Maine — when we were young and they were young and there were many chapters yet to be written in our story.