"Whatever it was that we were used to in our old life, before here, is the flag of our lost nation, the standard we raise up in a foreign land, nomads of the long-lost weather of home, the last little piece of our claimable identity."
-- Marjorie Sandor
in the early morning
the fog is thick and heavy
and seems to go on forever
as we drive, in no hurry,
winding along scratchy brown and green hills, then
through sighing, trembling eucalyptus groves
past houses our family
could never afford
to a place where suddenly
the white bank of sky
gives way to a blue
as endless as the endless fog was
just a minute before
and as suddenly
we are at the beach:
warm air, beckoning sea,
the sand beneath
my feet giving way with every step,
filling my rubber sandals,
a colorful Mickey Mouse towel
shifting under my arm.
my hand shields my eyes
from the bright, merciless sun
while we scout out a place
to lie down, stare at the ocean,
read our paperbacks,
talk a little. me, visiting my love the sea,
my mother, escaping for an afternoon
from her responsibilities.
enjoying the heat,
savoring the lack
of anything in particular
that needs doing.
when the fog rolls back in
late in the afternoon,
we run from the shadow of it
scramble back to the car
grateful at last
to live inland.
