I’m sitting on the rocking chair on the porch. It is blue, the color of the Caribbean right where the ocean floor takes its first real dip and suddenly you realize you’ve gone too far from shore. The porch floor is painted the same color, and both have matching chips and old age spots, so they seem to melt into each other, neither having a separate form. I am gently bobbing in the sea, up and down, up and down. The sun feels warm on my cheek and arm. I allow myself to rest my eyes, just for a few moments, because they ache. 

Inside, Nan is cooking, and she is loud. Just for a second, I imagine the towering pile of pots and pans that I will have to wash after dinner. I quickly brush the thought aside and turn my attention back to the sun, rocking harder, clinging ferociously to my daydream. It’s too late. I open my eyes. The sun, now starting its downward descent, has transformed the old humble oak into a master puppeteer, dangling leaves swaying softly in the breeze, casting dancing shadows across the old wood floor.  . I wish I could sit here, between the ocean and the forest, forever.