The Beach
I hold on to many good memories of the time when I was considered family, shared meals, beachside barbecues, all of us reading The Mephisto Waltz, later treking to the movie theater in St. Petersburg to watch it together.
That was the summer the deck was built to connect the sandspur ridden path from the beach, winding between the sea oats abundant that year before arriving at the back of the cottage where the glass door led to the kitchen. A table with an umbrella called quietly for a long read of the Sunday Newspaper listening to the screach of sea gulls swarming over stale crusts of bread.
London Broil was baking in the oven; the finest of dishes were eaten while wearing sandy swimsuits and flip flops and singing the tunes of the day playing on the radio. The pulsating shower head in the downstairs bath: drilling away the salt; stinging the fresh sunburn; washing clean all the cares of the world. And for that brief moment I belonged.
That was a beautiful summer; the Summer of '69.
Paul Mauriat, "Love is Blue" 1968