Going Home at the End of the Weekend (when home is not a place)

It is Sunday. I am standing in the Dolphin writing on my pages as the setting sun, still yellow and not yet orange, is lighting up the walls. Air, now cool, moves through the open screens. I am in the heart of summer, and I am soaking it up just as much as I have soaked up the sun. Everyone from the weekend is now returning home. Back to their comfort. A shower. Their own shower with their own products on the ledges. Only their hair and skin on the floor and walls. They will do laundry and unpack their vehicles. They will unpack the food from their cooler. Fish. Crab. Food I declined to take because I did not want it to spoil in the shitty cooler I need to replace. Their weekend finishes in the comfort of their home, where they will refresh and unwind after such an energetic weekend. Crabbing. Boating. Washers tournament. Mojitos. Bare feet, grass, crispy skin, blue skies. Starry nights above hammocks hanging from the beach house. Late night conversations with a young girl from a different country, traveling for the first time, exploring herself just as much as she explores our piece of the world here in the northwest.

Everyone has gone to the place where they belong, and where am I but parked at a park on the shores of Puget Sound, staring out at the San Juan Islands. Where will I go from here? I just kissed my tanned boyfriend’s lips goodbye, and that is that. I am alone, again. And again I am wondering where I shall sleep. What shall I do? Where shall I go? It is 8:15 PM and it is a mystery. Perhaps again I will be cursing in just a short while because it is late and I don’t know where to park for the night. Probably. But I don’t care. Eventually I will learn my lesson, but for now sunset is too important, and so are these deer eating grass no more than fifteen feet from me. Home is a different concept than it has ever been before. This is my life that I have chosen, and the hardest part is doing it alone. The hardest part usually signifies an area of growth, and I know that if it is hard, it must be something special. Something significant. The Stoics practiced this concept through feats of self discipline. A little suffering is good.


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