NOTRE DAME DU PORTAGE, QUE. – “Mom! Be careful on the rocks!”
I couldn’t help myself; I laughed. “Rocky beaches are my thing. I’ll be okay.”
“Then be careful with the camera on the rocks! Put it around your neck.”
“Just who is the mother here?” I asked him. “And if you follow me – be careful.”
He had the good sense to act chagrined. He should have been chagrined in silence, though, because the next words out of his mouth were: “It’s not that the rocks are really dangerous. It’s that they’re dangerous for old people.”
He’s damn lucky there was lots of pretty around to distract me.
When the sun had fallen below the clouds and we’d left the rocks, he tagged me on the dock.
“I’m too old to play tag,” I reminded him.
“No, you’re just too old to play tag on rocks.”
I tagged him pretty hard.
We walked along the beach rather than the road to go home. There is a cemetery on a small rise, with headstones right against the beach. Stone stairs leading to it are crumbled and broken, but the gravestones and grass are carefully tended. It would be a lovely place to spend eternity.
I got ahead of Trevor on the shore and he called out: “I know I said you’re old and everything, but you look really cool jumping from rock to rock.”
Well, yeah, cuz rocky beaches are my thing.
We got home right before the rain hit. There’s a remnant of sunset over the river as I compose this from our crooked deck at our slanted cottage. Walls barely meet here and everything is slightly off-centre. Rather like our family, which must be why I love it so.