on the train to Camden
A pale blue house sits on a grassy beach on a shore in Maine. The clouds are gray and the ocean, colorless, gently rises and falls on the sand, slow and heavy like the breathing of an old man. A peeling white fence separates the ocean and the house and a path of withered wooden planks leads to the back porch of the house. A blue and white striped beach towel, faded and dirty, lies on the porch, with a brown Tabby cat sitting on top, outstretched and sleeping. The reed around the house rustles in the wind and the swing on the porch rocks slowly. A seagull dips down into the ocean and continues to the house, landing on the windowsill, awakening the cat who lazily watches him. Inside, the wooden floors creak and the light blue and green walls darken the house. The dusty stairs lead up to a large room and two white bay windows open up to a wooden deck that overlooks the ocean. The house is silent and empty and waiting. Waiting for us.
