I woke up from a sound sleep. I had to come downstairs and start writing. I am haunted by the death of another dream.
The time has come and my parents are in the process of selling their summer home. The plan was that I would take it over when they were ready to let go but here is where the death of this particular dream comes in. I used to make enough money but this is no longer true. My life took a different path. And don’t get me wrong, I have made adjustments. I am not unhappy.
But this Maine thing is killing me a piece of me. There is something about this place, this little rustic, quaint, crowded, hole-in-the-wall camp – this is what they call cottages in Maine – that makes me feel like losing it will pull my guts out through my mouth and I will feel it start in the bottom of my feet. I am sick in my heart and my stomach and my head.
I have known this was coming for a while. I do not talk about it. I cannot stand it.
I want to retire and be there every day that I can. Every day that I can keep myself warm with wood and the pipes won’t freeze. I want to sit in my spot and read my book with my dog and my diet coke and a little bowl of those chubby pretzels with peanut butter centers. I want to set my book down and look up at the lake – sometimes smooth, sometimes choppy, sometimes sparkly like diamonds. I want to wave at whatever friend is going by in their boat. I want to cook on the little gas stove with the old black, well-seasoned cast iron pans. I want to wash dishes in the sink, one by one. I want to take a nap on the old iron day bed on the porch, the bed my grandparents slept on when they got married in 1935. I want to go to sleep in my little back bedroom with the roof right above my head and the rain pouring down so hard that the pounding puts me into a drooling trance. I want to walk to the end of the dock in the dark and look up and see every star in the sky. Every single one of them. You can do that there. I want to build a fire outside in the hole my nephew dug and surrounded with rocks. I want to float on hot summer days. I want to take the boat out to a deep spot and drop the anchor and do cannonballs and hoot and holler and laugh. I want to play cards on the front porch.
There is something about this place that gives me strength and recharges the peaceful center of my being. I feel it flowing through the middle of me when I am there. Gets me ready for whatever comes next. It is the peaceful spot in my head. When something stressful happens in my everyday life, I close my eyes and picture myself there. Looking at the water. Breathing. Slow, cool, deep, clean breaths.
So. My parents have a buyer. This will all be over by the end of August. When I think of talking out loud about it, I feel my throat tighten and restrict. I feel despair. It is an unfamiliar feeling for me but that is what it is.
I am driving to Maine in a couple of days. Other family members are coming up this week. The last hurrah. I am so looking forward to this. I am sick about this.
I have not written a blog for a long time. And here it is. Sad. No pictures. Just my queasy self typing away when I should be sleeping.
I will be in Maine on Thursday night. I will try to write another blog next week. One that is happy and full of good memories – both old ones and the ones we will make. That last ones. I will be there until July 12. Then I will leave and drive home.