Four days until Summer and the coast seems to have changed its mind. Maybe a few more afternoons in spring, it says. Perhaps one more cycle through the wash for the long sleeves.

Today we are mostly indoors. Me tending to ends that have come loose – the 2020 Census that has been tapping its foot at me. The administrative emails to be typed and sent. Some photos to cull and edit lest I find them in fall and lament having missed the chance to love them and share them in their season. Her maintaining the mostly soft and cold diet dictated by The Final Molar (which also dictated our broken sleep last night). Watching the TV shows I’ve intentionally given up feeling guilty about. Sitting on the sunroom floor doing her number puzzles by turns.

What number is this? Where does it go?

We have to stick close to the house today anyway, waiting for the truck that will bring us more furniture. It comes mostly weekly now, the mountain of chaises and chairs and desks and cases we ordered just before the shutdown slowly trickling into the delivery queue. We did go out back for a few minutes but even at 73 degrees it sure is hot in the midday sun. I’ve acclimated so to this version of warm I’m not sure I’d survive Florida anymore. Ember has never known anything hotter. 

We wagoned to the beach yesterday  – never to be confused with the “othen” which is the little set of pebbled shores and docks along the Piscataqua River, the salty inlet that carries ships to port and supplies endless rocks for “pwopping” when the tide allows. The “othen” is just at the top of our lane and over the hill, so three or four houses down, depending on how one counts. It makes for a quick excursion when there’s no time for the beach. 

“The Beach” is the actual beach, the town beach, where people drive from out of state to sun and sand on daylong trips carrying coolers and changes of clothes. It’s about 3/4 of a mile down island.

In summer this place becomes a tourist destination, a scenic drive-through, a place to visit with the Atlantic, take an infusion of salt air. We wind along the north end of the island, me pulling the wagon behind and to the inside, a little safer from the slow traffic, enjoying the shore that looks out over Maine across the water and the tops of swaying sailboats, past the Coast Guard station and the giant catamaran tied to the dock, down the short spit of Ocean Rd, sometimes taking a pinecone into the wagon, and we dead-end into the wide and welcoming open Atlantic. 

The wind blowing over the waves was cold when we parked the wagon on the sand. I kept saying “Mama is cold, Ember. Are you cold? Maybe we should go home soon.”

“How ’bout we use hats a feel better?” 

“Ok, but our hats are summer hats and not very good for staying warm.” This elicits no reply, she’s too busy stooping down, examining rocks and sea glass and ties of mariner rope, frayed and broken off, carried on the current to this beach. 

After an hour of hunting for treasures, blue oyster shells and sea glass, she said “I need go home, Mama.” And so we pack our treasures into the sandy wagon bottom and we wheel back up island, to rinse our feet in the clawfoot tub. 

I grew up mostly a 20 minute car ride from the ocean in Florida and the water changes color as you climb the seaboard. There it is light, warm blue and mostly inviting save for winter jellyfish. Here it is serious, cobalt and cold, with a limited season for comfortable swimming. And still we court it, visiting and dipping in toes, squealing and running from the winter chill climbing up the sand and smoothing our footprints. 

Water is slow to forget. It stays cold long after the air decides on summer for good. People are quicker to forgot.

Is it safe? Are we just sick of COVID? Sick of even the term social distance? I’ve been talking seriously to both my parents about late summer visits since we now have a functioning home and a plush guest room. I was beside myself with excitement yesterday discussing possible dates and looking at airline tickets. But the danger is still out there, even if I’m just sick of hearing and thinking about it. How much risk is too much? Where does the Risk to Joy ratio tip in favor of Joy? With the lack of precedence we have no answers. One hopeful day at a time is the best any of us can rustle up.