I am on a deck, holding a glass of French Chablis. I am relaxed. I stare into the trellis of trees. They sway in the Adirondack breeze. Their leaves catch the fresh Canadian air. I watch them slowly tilt, left….then right….then left…
I sip the wine and focus on the rustle of the wooded waves, until I close my eyes and go to Cape Cod.
I smell the saltwater. A day at the beach has ended. We are showered and cool. Again, we are on a deck. I prepare the grill for dinner.
I position the steaks and corn. A memory of hot dogs and burgers, a wobbly charcoal grill. A long-ago bungalow colony cookout. Dads are with us kids again. They drove up from the steamy city Friday night and we waited for their arrival, sitting on a grassy hill that overlooked the gravel parking lot.
A squeal of joy as, one by one, the dads pulled their Chevys, Fords and DeSotos onto the gravel driveway. We hugged their legs. They kissed our moms. Our dads were back! Tomorrow: fishing! Swimming! Salamander hunting in the forest!
The loamy forest, a powerful perfume. New cut grass. Fresh air.
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Now I revisit a more recent idyll, across the Atlantic. Ireland is greener than the greenest upstate preserve, the place of magical vacations.
The mind continues to search its hard drive. The ancestral vibes of the Middle East. The beauty of Holland. Spain. France. Scotland. Sedona. Alaska. So many places I’ve experienced. So many more jaunts to plan.
So much need to unwind.
Is ‘Rona over? I doubt it. There will be a rebound, another variant. Delta? Something worse? Another zoonotic species jump? We’d be foolish to think otherwise.
And so, I dream of vacations past and — soon — future. As Jimi would sing: “‘scuse me, while I kiss the sky.”
