The Crossing

I need to get to the other side.

I have no business writing tonight. It is midnight (Thursday); in the morning, we leave on an early boat for the mainland. At least that is the plan. The wind has kicked up something fierce and tonight’s ferries were canceled.

If tomorrow’s boats (correction, today’s boats - it is now Friday) don’t run, we won’t make it to Maine for the rehearsal dinner, which is at a restored lifesaving station.

My best friend’s daughter is getting married. It means everything to me to be there this weekend with all of her family — my second family — and to witness the wedding. It never occurred to me that the boats might not run. How long have I been living here?

Saturday is forecast to be very windy, too, which could blow the whole thing for us.

We’re packed, though. And prepared to wait all day in standby if there is any chance of getting off the rock.

Farmer is coming with us – too much going on with him to leave him with someone now, nor do we want to be away from him. A few weeks ago, I switched us from a hotel to a beach “cottage” (aka fancy shack) that allows pets.

So the car will be stuffed with him, his bed, our outfits (I bought a new dress!) – and with two big buckets of flowers I picked for tomorrow night’s dinner. I finished harvesting them tonight in the pouring rain, in the dark with a flashlight. (Don’t ask me why I waited – I picked most of them yesterday.)

I’m not worried about the flowers.

I’m not worried about missing out on the fun and the beautiful setting (settings - both days), though disappointment for that part courses through me.

What I don’t want to miss is the opportunity to see a lot of people I care about all in one place at one time. You know how that goes – the whole weddings and funerals thing. These things hit you in your gut when you get older. Time.

Well.

I’m writing this little note into the universe, scheduling it for Sunday, so you will be reading it when we are hopefully about ready to leave Maine and make our way back. A message in a bottle of sorts. Cross your fingers.

In knowing I would not manage either a Garden Gram or (much of) a Sunday essay this week, I went back through older posts looking for something else to share with you about sobriety and recovery, as I did last week and the week before for Recovery Month.

And I found this essay, or I should say, it found me. It’s about joy and sorrow wrapped up in time (of course) - about celebrating 17 years of sobriety last Christmas, and still feeling the loss of the person who guided me through so many of those years.

Hold your folks tight. And keep an eye on the weather forecast.

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