And the rain, and the rain, and the rain is dripping and soaking; I will not make any noise today. Do not disturb the gentle pattern of drops falling like lace at the end of the summer’s boardwalk; the sun toasted flip flop curls, blanched and lying on the splintered boards where you caught and tore your heel…that wood now rubberized after months of sand and saltwater and wind. And it rains, and it rains, and it rains…
This is the last week of summer, when the rain washes away the remnants of strawberry shakes and oversized cheeseburgers…and the salted sweat on our faces when we traveled along the edges of the East Coast. We absorbed the histories of Yale and Brown…of Columbia and Dartmouth…and there was always the next ice cream shop around the corner, the next new book to begin and the endless stretch of lolling in relaxed stupor with white cotton sheets and the breezes and the maps…and now, this rain.
Now we light the first darkly hued candle to ward off that early morning graying damp…no more pineapple and coconut candles but rather the lights of spiced orange and darker shades of lavendars…for the rain is washing it all away…brooming away in sheets, the salt and the flapping banners along the old boardwalk…for we have been walking for months and months it seems, and the end of the boardwalk is in sight.
So pack up the basket and the bike; pack them away and throw out that curled flip flop, which long ago deserted its mate…somewhere along the baked coast of this lovely country…returning North to the rain and the rain and the rain…farewell to the splintered woods and the salt baths and wind…turning slightly, ever so slightly to the first oranging of a maple…there at the end of the boardwalk. Every hour we spent was a thoughtful gathering of ornate sea shells ; stringing them one by one over a silken thread…counting and gathering, counting and gathering.
We are trading up and over now…our sea shells for maple leaves and chocolates and bonfires…there at the end of the boardwalk.
690 Saint Paul 