I should be deliciously happy that I’m going to Maine in only a week. And I am, in theory. There is something about Maine that is healing. I get to longing for those gray shores and crisp nights. I dream of the smell of fresh cut grass and the waving umbrella tops of Queen Anne’s Lace in the fields. The hole in my heart grows bigger the longer I’m away, but it’s become something I just bear. I can’t ever get to Maine as much as I’d like to. One trip will tide me over for another few years. My roots will have tasted home soil and I will feel much better, I’m sure.
This is the first time my sister and I have been sans fellows on a family trip in a long time. They’re nice to have around, of course, but it’s a different kind of trip without them. I’m looking forward to it.
I have big plans to finish draft 5 of the novel, staring at my laptop screen until all hours of the night. I will be inside, but I will know that the stars are shining brighter outside my window than they ever do in California. In Maine you can see the Milky Way cutting across the dark sky. In California I am lucky to pick out Orion. My sister and I will also visit with my grandmother’s sister and see what Salem is like the week before Halloween. I plan to eat lobster, watch the boats chug by out the (new) French door, take lots of pictures, and follow my whims in all things. The Queen Anne’s Lace will be frozen into submission and the fields will be brown, but the forests will be full of color and the fierce, reedy beauty of Fall in Maine will be out in force.
It sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? That is why I am not yet deliciously happy. I want it too badly, so surely work will rescind their permission for me to take time off. Or Brian will find that he cannot spare me for a week. Or something unseen and crushing will conspire to ruin it. Until I am on that plane…
But, no sense in being a total pessimist. I have bought brown oxfords and have dug my sweaters out of the depths of the bottom drawer. Maine, here I (most likely) come!