The Dog Farm

Everything comes in waves and when the swell is too big you find yourself pummelled. Grasping at the shifting sand, gasping for a breath of air, you try to open your wet, salty eyes to see. If you make it out alive, a bit of rest is in order.

I had to leave for the weekend.

Sitting here in a quiet little house in a beautiful beach town I can't help but feel like I'm someone else. I'm calling it the "dog farm" because three adorable Boston Terriers seem to be running the place at the moment.

As the sun begins to set, Riva and I are moving around the house in our long white nightgowns going about our separate activities. Reading, sewing, sleeping, snacking.

The crumbs from our long gone sandwiches cast little shadows on the lap trays we used in the living room. Our sun-browned skin, a stark contrast to the white, is soft with the layers of Shea butter we diligently melted and applied. The only sounds are those of birds, neighbor children in the distance and the chewing and snorting of the pups.

As I napped with the youngest one pressed against my chest and belly I measured the difference in our breaths and dozed in and out of strange fever dreams. This place is peaceful, this place is not my home and I'm reminded of the imminent and oh-so-familiar in between feeling that I'll soon be living in again.

When I close my eyes I can feel the waves bobbing me up and down.

When I open them I remember,

I am here.

Here is where I am.