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It was, by any definition, a wash-out of a long weekend. Yes, we needed the rain, and more that is forecast for tomorrow, and it is far too early in the season to be thinking such a thing. Some of the knotweed at the edge of my yard went over in the.
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It sounds like spring outside. Not the peepers of the evening nor the birdsong of morning, but construction, some construction, somewhere, floating on the still air.
A pounding, it sounded from the yard, then a hammering, then a pounding, again. I remembered the sound of what I still say was a hammer but, of course, was really a nail gun, early in the morning until well after dark, the spring that the house above the Mansion site was nearing its completion deadline.
I’d see the lights at night, I knew what was happening, but there were still days of a soft southwest breeze that confused me, when the reverberations seemed to be coming from the north, the echo I would quickly remember, sounding off Clay Head.
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These days I don’t first awaken when morning gilds the sky, or even when the first flush of color spreads up from the ocean; it is earlier, when the east-facing window I see when I open my eyes, takes on definition of its own, a rectangle of pale gray distinguishing itself from the dark wall around it. I reach for my phone and touch the dark screen to find the time and the light from it is enough to add more definition to the room. It was a shade after five and I think I was asleep, again, even before the phone dimmed.
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Once upon a time I had the notion if I wore shoes, shoes with heels, not tall spiky heels, but heels high enough for me to be able to pretend I wasn’t quite as short as I am, at least once a week, I would never be one of those people who said “I used to wear things like that. . .”
Then I broke my little toe one summer, at least that is what I always say it did sort of hang and it hurt very much on a big rock on the beach behind my house. “Behind my house” is one of those definitions that is accurate but misleading as it is a classic case of “you can’t get there from here.” Had I wings it wouldn’t be far but had I wings I wouldn’t have been running into the same rock I had passed morning after summer morning, back when I walked as far north as it was sandy, be it Clay Head or all the way to the Green Gully.