Beach House Fantasy

If I could afford it (it’s not just the cost of rent, it’s the kenneling of the dogs, and the paying of airfare, etc.), I’d be spending a week in one of those Outer Banks rentals that Anne Rivers Siddons writes so vibrantly about. I’ve got this longing to spend a week sitting by the shore reading and writing and drinking iced tea, and doing very little else.

The sea is in my blood. The tides call to me, even when I’m hundreds of miles inland. In my dreams I float on beds of soft kelp, carried atop waves of deep blue, and if sharks circle, they do so protectively, not out of malice or hunger.

I remember coming home from a day at the beach only to spend even more time swimming, or just soaking in the bath. I remember sand stuck everywhere – even in the part of my tightly-braided hair.

I remember the frosted iced tea glasses with the unfrosted leaves, like a reverse etching, and how my grandfather’s tea always tasted of cinnamon and lemon, and love.

I remember. and I miss it so.

And I want to wake up to the sound of shore birds, and go to sleep with the soft sound of the ocean lapping at the sand.

This summer, I will have my beach house fantasy.