The Painter's Brush

If there is one thing that we can count on, it is that life will be completely unpredictable. I am back at the beach, this time with my family and tow.  The chill has been banished by the over-ruling sun and the sand sizzles with a warm welcome of delight as the last of the vacationer’s take advantage of this reprieve from an early fall. Most of the people on this beach are cottage owners that will be soon heading back to the demands of work and school with the exception of the gulls that tramp the shoreline begging their lunch. I can see the outline of land far across the lake and I wonder what it must have been like for the first settlers of this country; seeing home for the first time or returning after working at sea. The gently undulating line on the horizon is no more than the Painter’s brush swept across the water with a blend of color mixed from the lighter sky and the blue waters that darken with mystery as they make their rendezvous with the distant sky. The landline beckons to me of friends and family I have left across the shore, never forgotten. It is here that I feel closest to them at times when seemingly such a small body of water separates us and I can simply float effortlessly homeward like driftwood. The rush of a motorboat slicing through the waves pulls me back to the present and I am on the beach with my family, watching them read and trying not to slip down the sandy hill where I’ve found enough shade to open my laptop. I've discovered it’s rather hard to wax eloquent when there’s sand in your drawers. I’d like to think I could pull off a neat somersault and nail the landing perfectly with my laptop held safely aloft but I just don’t see that happening.  I climb gingerly down the little hill and run off to toss the football some more.  I'm going  enjoy this unexpected blessing of warmth and the love of the family that I carry with me always.