My parents and I are in Dallas, visiting my grandmother and uncle. It’s raining, and water is pouring from my uncle’s gutters onto the cement outside.
Today, my brother–who’s in Vermont studying his ass off in engineering school–sent a picture of us together in Maine. His girlfriend Caroline took it this summer when the three of us climbed a tree atop Mount Champlain, the highest point on Isle au Haut.
I tried to conjure up the smells from being there—the century-old wood on the stairs in our house; the dusty sweetness of picking huckleberries; and of course salt, seaweed and rocky beaches.
It didn’t work, so I checked the weather on the island: clear and 34 degrees. The moon is waxing gibbous, which means it rose high in the east at sunset, and is more than half-lit, but not full.
The latest I ever stayed on the island was November 2, at which point I hightailed back to Vermont to vote in the 2004 presidential election. I wouldn’t mind seeing a moonrise over the ocean from that tree atop Mount Champlain on a clear late fall night some day.