Wet tents

I went for a walk in the fog after work. I passed the beach and remembered about beach peas. The ocean smelled strong. The beach in the fog reminded me of what summer smelled like when I was a kid. It also smelled like cut grass, watermelon, wet rose petals (used as confetti, perfume, decoration on mud pies…) wild strawberries, and wet tents early in the morning after rain in the night.

Today: a field of irises and contours of islands in the fog. The repetition of work, the sort of petty satisfaction of accomplishing small tasks.

Small (the baby-to-be) quietly with me all the time. What can you hear, Small? What does it sound like to you when I unroll the packing tape? When I talk to you? There’s the whole world, Small. This whole entire world that you’re going to come to. That you’ll get to find out about, little by little. It’s so full, Small. Full of big things and little things. Sounds and colours and ants and words and dogs and trees. Happiness and confusion and quiet and noise and cherries and cheese and bumble bees and love and other people and houses and boats and the knocking on of doors and the turning on and off of lights, and breakfasts, and skies, and slanting sun on the floor, and islands looking mysterious in the fog and wood and metal and cloth and paint and cameras and paper.

Needing and wanting and having and getting and the wide open space beyond all of that, that space you can let back inside of you despite all the clutter and trouble and misunderstandings.