Grey and chilly today. Ranged across the Sound, duck blinds stand bovine against the horizon. The wind howled in door frames and past windows all night. We began the week with a/c, moved to open windows, and have now turned on the heat. Where yesterday the Sound and sky merged, horizon dissolving into shimmering whiteness, today the grey, choppy water keeps to itself below the clouds, chocking against the stones of the breakwater.
Kat saw a ghost on the first night, in her upstairs bedroom, and we’ve been blaming things on it ever since – cranky children, lost books, draughts. Poor phantasm, such a convenient scapegoat. I joke, but I have stopped taking showers in the upstairs bathroom.
Yesterday, Kat and I walked the tiny nature preserve at Springer’s Point, a path through damp, tentacled live oaks festooned with lichen. Stillness and cloud-light, and we emerge on the shores of the Sound, by a marsh behind oyster beds. A dog barks insistently at a man standing in the deep sand. Two women on a bench greet us as we pass and turn back into the wood. A tiny, fenced enclosure marks a few ivy-covered graves, one marked also by a small, moss-colored rearing horse.
On this New Year’s Day we have been quiet, a little bemused by a week of leisure and the prospect of heading home tomorrow. I will be sad to leave the open sky, though glad also to return home to draw strength from the familiar. Here’s to more love than can be contained in a single year, great rolling waves of it forward and forward onto your shores.