Today, it's their last walk with me to the beach. The dogs will ride home early in the morning tomorrow with my daughter. We walk our long walk without meeting another soul. For the last time they watch me like I'm God, swimming from the shore. I have the house to myself for a bit; a rare thing on this trip. The rest have gone off on a boat ride to the Elizabeth Islands with a friend. I have my last workshop to lead at Featherstone, and I'm eager to meet with these writers this last time, our workshop like book ends, beginning and ending this stay. I will be sad to say goodbye to them after our deep sessions of writing from personal photos and sharing their writing. I know they have truly appreciated this time together, and so have I. The melancholy I feel in the quiet house has nothing to do with the family having left. It's this feeling I get on the last day or so of any trip. I have made my home, I have lived here with so many feelings, I have immersed myself in this place with enthusiasm. My friends and family have surrounded me in the glorious setting of this wonderful island. It's time to pack. I'm restless. I want a quick release from this sadness. Instead, I observe it. I understand it. I know it's about happiness, really. That's the feeling. I have been so happy here with the people I love, doing what I love. But I don't pack yet. I put on my bathing suit. I will go to Lucy Vincent Beach for the hour or so that I have and I will bob in the waves for bit. And then, to the writers, so say goodbye. To appreciate and honor the connections we've made with our writing lives and discover and say: here's what meeting each other has meant. And give thanks.
