I feel as though I have left a winter home, familiar and laden with family photos, business and ambition, the gutters that leak and the lawn to be mown, and come to a summer home of my youth. Less ornate, weather-worn and lighter, but full of youthful memories. I bask in the sun and allow things to grow where they have taken root. I play; it is play with power of course. It is like sailing: One may drown, but it is not the drowning of the dull meetings and the whittling of self.
Who would have thought it for myself? Not I.
It has always rankled, this letter which stated it would be good for me if we separated. I cannot agree that it should have been thus, to be pushed out of a home, commitments broken in a moment. But having fled to this summer home the vista is tremendous, the old coal barbeque gives food a taste not to be found elsewhere. I am glad to have come here with my archangel.