On the spit.

“Today when you took your last breath it was so hard to continue breathing. My heart hurts so bad.” The words of my former sister-in-law haunt me yesterday and again today. She has lost her best friend to cancer this week. Guilt floods me, even though this trip is badly needed for my soul. I’m so close but don’t want to go to comfort her. I want to be with me and my sister and what I need and we need to catch the ten forty ferry to Bainbridge.

The sky and the water are the same shade of gray. The evergreen hills in the distance are coated a Dover Gray and separate the hues so the horizon is not one solid mass. A light rain has settled over the Puget Sound. The drops patter lightly on the painted wood deck in a random splash. The steps are slick with slime. Tufts of lime moss grow in the corners of the doorway. I touch them with my finger and they spring and bounce with life. White clam shells break up the blue and gray stones tucked between wood chunks. Mother Nature has color coordinated winter on the spit.

Yang Ming painted in large white font in the center of a barge floats by. The barge covered in a patchwork of multicolored metal containers makes its way slowly up the inside passage to Tacoma. A sea gull its feathers a dingy gray, floats near the beach, briefly alongside the barge as it passes in the distance.  Violent waves replace the soft ones ten minutes later. Ginger shortbread its rims coated in crystal bake in the oven. The smell of sweet butter wafts through the house around our conversations. 

“Do you think Mom would baptize my kids on the sly?”

“Did the Catholic Church teach you the rhythm method?”

My sister leans over a table on the far side of the living room working on a puzzle Johnna has brought. A totem pole with eight eyes looms behind her and watches over us all. The vast room is defined by three areas, Library, Media and kitchen. The puzzle; It’s missing some pieces, ‘but what does that matter’ Johnna said earlier. ‘In the end it does not really matter’. I suppose it depends on the type of person you are whether it does or doesn’t. It’s the process of putting together the puzzle. My sister does not agree yet slowly succumbs to the addiction and pull of the riddle. Match the color coated fragments and pattern piece by piece. 

Justine has built a fire and it glows quietly as she reads a magazine on the couch. The living room is sunken and the couch covered in denim lines three edges of the floor. Three bongo drums serve as end tables. The bamboo shades are down now to cover the black night. We wait dinner for Annette. Slide in a movie, ‘Begin Again’ with Kiera Knightly’s wide jaw. I find I stare at her jaw and teeth during a movie they are large and mesmerizing. 

Tradition is fondue and with long forks we dunk bread, potatoes, broccoli, into the hot mess of melted Swiss cheese. Wine glasses glisten around the table. Bogle, Chateau St. Michele and Fourteen Hands bottles sit empty of liquid burgundy. We return to an earlier discussion and another husband is added to the list, making it three men that have never asked their wives for a blowjob. My sister and I are stunned; who knew men like that existed. Later as we watch ‘The age of Adaline’ Johnna states that Ellis would not ask for one either. 

We laugh heartily and I turn my head and say. “You know since you have found a man like that and all three of you have proven that they exist I may trust you on this.”Maybe she should pick my next man. Wouldn’t that be grand to never have a man in your life that says “You could start by sucking my dick. How about a blowjob? What about some road head?”

The next dawn is cast in Prussian. I stand on the porch above the sand and have a cigarette and take photos of the blue jean sunrise. There is a hum that echoes between the island and mainland. I cannot tell if it is land traffic or water. Birds flitter in flight over the water. Logs drift by silently, floating coffins.

A day to shop, write, explore, eat, read and unwind lies before me. So many pleasurable choices like these offered on vacation make me flit from one to another yesterday with no focus or achievements. Today it is clear that is the point. Whimsy. 

Crab shells appear in random locations like hidden Easter eggs. The seagulls are guilty. I spy a leg on a private deck, a claw on a shingled roof, a piece rests on a fence post. The unfortunate crustacean is like the puzzle Johnna brought. Missing links.

Bits of conversation fill the room as I write. 

“Their personality is as shaped as much as it going to be. I cannot warp them any further. But I really enjoy them.”“Don’t you think each doctor has a personality associated with his field.”

High Tea designated this because the height of the table is served as brunch. (That is the definition from knowledge of Tea.) The long rectangle table is filled with platters of treats. Apricot scones, tea sandwiches, cakes, cookies and fruit are just some of the food. Dainty gifts are presented. The sun makes an appearance and the beach has tripled in size with the tide out. I want to take seaweed home for my compost bin. 

Early afternoon we rise from the spit into the heavy shrouded island. Evergreens tower over the road. Spring color is showing in the crème bloom of dogwoods and magnolias. Our first stop is the Bay Feed Store. In town, we park behind where we are going to eat ‘The Streamliner.’ We walk along the busy main street and shop. I purchased a timer that caught my eye, some candy for my boys. There is a Turkish rug store. I don’t go in right away but stare at the beautiful lamps hanging from the ceiling at the entrance. I want one. Every year for my birthday I buy myself something just for me by me, to honor myself. Since muck boots did not work out this might. The lamps are curved like voluptuous women and covered in glass and beads. They twinkle as they stir and turn. 

I step inside the door, the stores shadows are filled with stacks of carpets some as high as my shoulders. It smells of dust and fiber. I catch a glimpse of the owner he is very handsome.  The light from the sun on the street catches his eyes as he reaches to my lamp above his head and I hold my breath with surprise. Yowza. I stir to life. Something hidden inside me is found. Captivated I start to pay attention to him. Akin to the sirens call to fisherman. He pulls me in with those eyes yellow golden brown. Further intrigued I glance quickly down at his left hand. A ring of gold rests on that restricted fourth finger. Well damn. But I have learned I’m not dead to desire, yearning and flirting. Time passes in slow motion. My sister is sent to retrieve me from deep within the store and I leave with the carefully wrapped Aladdin’s lamp. Flustered and full of longing and memories of Mr. Charron. Those light eyed Mediterranean men slay me every time.

Nick has called and I laugh wickedly. How does he know and sense these things. But both interludes; the married Turk and the calling roommate fill me with pleasure, power and confidence. Nick calls again as I make a trek to the car to store my lamp.

Dinner, I choose the pappardelle with braised pork, mascarpone, fresh parsley, mozzarella and alderwood smoked sea salt. It was rich and flavor full. I know that does not do it justice. Chunks of pork and medallions of mozzarella swam in a rich cream sauce that coated the long wide noodles. Two bottles of Claret and our appetizer was the sautéed calamari.  We return to the spit and movies. Stuck on you and The 100 year old man who stepped out a window and disappeared. 

Pewter and shades of gray are my vision beyond rain streaked windows this morning. Our weekend is coming to an end. But I have found something that I badly needed; the essence of me that is woman, artistic, creative and sexual. I have laughed and listened. Shared things with woman that made me remember who I was. With the purchase of Aladdin’s lamp and that brief interlude with an attractive man has stirred the juices. The sun makes a brief poke through the clouds and lights a golden path across the pewter to me as I write and stare out the window. It fades briefly and returns again, like a neon sign arrow that flashes it points to me. I think, yes I know I’m paying attention.

White caps appear with rolling waves the horizon disappears. We started this trip with a death and have to end with the same. Molly’s and Roberts son was killed in a car accident and Sarah Hanes mother Blue Bird Betty passed away this long weekend. 

Rest in peace.