We don't often do things as an immediate family. We tend to travel with a larger tribe, friends or family or some combination of the two. But this weekend stole away as a party of six spending our time without distraction.
We drove three hours to the
mountains, at least "mountains" by East Coast standards. The nostalgia came in fast and hard as we drove, thinking about other times I had made a similar drive, all those music festivals first as
a college kid, later dragging along Sena and Gus until the whole thing finally became too much. Time did that confusing thing when everything seems like it just happened but also that it happened a lifetime ago.
We spent a few days in a too small cabin, mostly playing in the drizzle but occasionally getting a few hours of sunshine and blue skies. The air was thick with the smell of earth, and the moss beneath our feet felt better than any carpet ever made by man. We found thousands of tadpoles at the lake's edge, came across a baby fawn waiting for her mother right along the path. We walked through the forest in inappropriate foot ware, identifying whatever plants and trees we could.
Tom played
boardgames with the kids while I nursed Alamae. We grilled and we made s'mores. Gus and I hardly slept--
he because he was scared of bears, me because a room full of that many people I love means so many breaths to be listening to all night long. We came home dirty and tired and happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment