The celebration of my birth shares the season of my son's passing. To sooth and comfort me, my Captain plans an escape to Newport, Rhode Island.
It has been 8 years since my child took his broken winged flight without me. My wound, now a scar, bleeds still.
The party is in full swing late Friday night when we arrive at our well appointed room rigged above an aromatic coffee and pastry shop, punctuated at the furthest tip of a weathered wharf.
Anchored on a private deck, with our dogs at our feet, we sip chardonnay and applaud the beacon of stars that decorate our horizon.
It is sweet and steamy and oh so salty, here at our berth.
Cabin cruisers and majestic schooners, with their lofty masts and tightly rolled sails, bounce off pillowed posts.
Late into the night, he cradles me.
The following day, when tears accompany a dawn's heavy fog, my loyal companions lead me on thick morning walk.
Eager eyes and joyful tails are a welcome distraction and a deliberate decoy. I hide behind my dogs, my husbands hand, and thick, dark shades.
We make it back just as the sky cracks.
I cannot predict when it rains.
The precipitation passes but my sadness lingers. Without words, he knows. Gently, he consoles - whispering promises of a clear, pink sky.
The sun returns in time for lunch. Laughter whisked in pleasant trade winds join the clamor of ravenous gulls. Clusters of restless tourists bounce along cobbled streets. Merchants with their open doors entice a taste, a touch.
The echo of my hunger sways me and I breath in - deeply.
I let go of my pain, devour chowder, lobster and imported champagne. Parade through shops - try on this and twirl in that.
It's time to play.