The house is mine again in the only way that matters, which is the quiet way. Nobody has to announce it. The keys on my ring say it. The swept floors say it. The lavender still growing says it.
I make tea in the reading corner on winter mornings, and the Atlantic moves beyond the dunes in the slow, reliable rhythm of something that has always been there and will continue being there regardless of what we do with our brief time at the edge of it.
Winston used to say this coast had no patience for pretension. The weather simply did not accommodate it. Storms came. Tides came. The sea reclaimed whatever people left unattended on its edge.
He was right about that.
He was usually right about things worth being right about.
The pearl earrings are back on my bedside table. The gull brooch is back in its small box where I keep things that matter. The embroidered apron with the tiny blue flowers is back on its hook in the kitchen.
