…is loud (really loud), windy, black as the inside of your old summer camp trunk, wet, cold, and did I mention loud? I just shuddered after one huge clap of thunder like I haven’t heard since the night before our wedding, one year ago here, when all the panes of glass rattled in the windows and my brother ran drunk through flooded streets in leather driving loafers.
Just threw all the windows and doors open to the whipping rain storm and pulled my sweater around my shoulders. Not sure where Rob is; investigating something on the porch? About to dive under the Frette linens and fall asleep imagining ill fates of whalers, hundreds of years ago, bobbing around the Atlantic seasick as hell and harpooning mammoth beasts as their lonely, loyal women paced on widow’s walks of grey cedar shake back on shore, twiddling pieces of hair and boiling ham hocks on the stove. (I just made up that ham hock thing because I love pork.)
What I would give to call this place my home.
-Carey
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