Image via Wikipedia by Paola Sersante

I had the idea that since it was cold, I could bake a lasagna, and set off to get ricotta and cheese. The store that used to be an independent then a Wild Oats then a Whole Foods and now is back to being an independent was the one I chose. Wandering around, disappointing the young man who wanted me to try hummus, possibly even insulting him by not trying it, I made way to the cashier who wanted to know what the customer in front of me was going to do with his lone avocado. Instantly, I felt guilty for the amount of dairy I had, but I had slipped in dates and a mango, and a brought a bag.
We discussed the mango, I paid, and was on my way to my car when I realized it was raining. Actually it was hailing.

The sound of hail on a rooftop is brutal. You feel as if things will break, things like the roof, the windows. I probably should have returned to the independent and had a snack. But other people were driving, so I did too. I used my wipers, I used the defrost with the heat and AC on full blast, I made a left turn barely able to see. That was when the lightning began. The safest place in a storm, I told myself, is a car. At some point I blasted Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” which happened to be on the radio. I never crank up the volume; what better time than in a raging hailstorm?

I got to the driveway, My doormat was covered with hail and fresh green leaves. It looked like a deconstructed mojito. I put the lasagna fixings away. In two hours, the sun came out. I opened the windows. May looked back.

Cape cod is my new destination.  I’m trying to imagine the beach, the figures in the early morning leaning against buildings in town as I make my way to get morning coffee.  How will I know which cafe will stay option all year?  Which will welcome my laptop, my need for quiet and company?  The winter light, the early morning misty pink sunrises and the dark heavy red sunsets, the golden hour of late afternoon which has the painterly light sought by so many.  The dunes, the beach rugosa, the winding paths through the salt flats.  I last lived there in 87.  Nearly a quarter century ago.  I’m no longer that skinny bewildered girl hidden by a mass of hair.

I’ll get a puppy.  I might get a kitten.  I will leave behind all my furniture, take my books and clothes and pots and pans and start again.  At fifty, I’ll start again, near the water at first light.