Not yet.
Less angry maybe at State & Life, more angry probably at wild children rubbing sand down each other’s necks. We have to drive back in a car! A car! For people!
Bringing kids out of a long lockdown is honestly proving more complicated than keeping them there, which was very hard.
Things are hard.
We wrestle by the main street.
We air our grievances in the summer house.
I sob in the bakery. Wearing a friggin double cotton mask and some ridiculously huge see-through gloves. Like some inadequately equipped builder. Desperate for a break from a never-ending, payless shift at the world’s most beautiful AND COMPLICATED building site.
After seven in the evening, I threaten sand-coated people in the beach shower. People who suddenly seem to have lost all ability to compromise. We are the three uncompromising beach goers on empty stretches of waves and seashells and millions of grains of sand that want to come home with us.
I wouldn’t call this healing.
Maybe shared, love-based suffering in glorious natural surroundings?
Something to Write Home About 
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