Theea
see the city and the ocean mist
I sit on the porch with the last of my warm cider cupped between my hands, smiling to myself as the first stars wink through the twilight. The breeze off the water is cool enough to raise goosebumps along my bare arms, a clean sort of chill that feels earned. I took a bath in my own tub, made dinner in my own kitchen, and now I’m wrapped in a sweater dress that doesn’t make me feel exposed—soft against skin still damp from the steam, hair brushed out and dark, chilled by the Leafchange air in a way that wakes me up.
Out in the sandy yard, where I cleared a pocket free of seagrass, the firepit is burning low—more ember than flame now—casting a small, steady glow across the pale sand. Its light doesn’t reach far, but it’s enough to mark the end of the day, a last warm heartbeat in the dark. The windchimes sing in little fits and starts—driftwood, shells, seaglass, hagstones—then hush again, as if listening with me.
My friends and family have gone. The quiet they leave behind is the good kind, the deep breath after a long run. Mom will come tomorrow and we’ll start painting inside, one room at a time. I’ll take the outside after Deepfrost. There’s a little soldierly line of paint buckets waiting by the steps, patient as anything. The stained glass went in today—a small milestone I keep turning over in my head—and I can feel that fact in the bones of the house even if I can’t see it from here.
I glance along the siding where the old paintings fade into shadow, just the suggestion of color now. I wanted to live with the original for a season anyway, to let the past breathe while I settle in. The ocean hushes beyond the dunes; all the torches along the coast blink and breathe with the tide. I sip the last of the cider, warmth pooling low in my chest, and lean back against the post. I’m glad to be alone tonight. Still, maybe I’ll invite Flora over for lunch this week. I can already hear the windchimes laughing with her.
Out in the sandy yard, where I cleared a pocket free of seagrass, the firepit is burning low—more ember than flame now—casting a small, steady glow across the pale sand. Its light doesn’t reach far, but it’s enough to mark the end of the day, a last warm heartbeat in the dark. The windchimes sing in little fits and starts—driftwood, shells, seaglass, hagstones—then hush again, as if listening with me.
My friends and family have gone. The quiet they leave behind is the good kind, the deep breath after a long run. Mom will come tomorrow and we’ll start painting inside, one room at a time. I’ll take the outside after Deepfrost. There’s a little soldierly line of paint buckets waiting by the steps, patient as anything. The stained glass went in today—a small milestone I keep turning over in my head—and I can feel that fact in the bones of the house even if I can’t see it from here.
I glance along the siding where the old paintings fade into shadow, just the suggestion of color now. I wanted to live with the original for a season anyway, to let the past breathe while I settle in. The ocean hushes beyond the dunes; all the torches along the coast blink and breathe with the tide. I sip the last of the cider, warmth pooling low in my chest, and lean back against the post. I’m glad to be alone tonight. Still, maybe I’ll invite Flora over for lunch this week. I can already hear the windchimes laughing with her.
i wish you could be here for this
