Roses, ocean, deer

When I was young I had a cigar box of corked vials of sand from various beaches I had lived near, with labels: Virginia Beach, Pompano Beach, Second Beach, Singing Beach. I don’t recall why I kept it a secret, why I kept them under my bed through the years, and where they finally vanished to. When my son was four, he poetically asked if he could have a “fawn cub.” I asked a mother question: Where would you keep it? “In my bed,” he said. What would you feed it? I asked. “Fawn milk,” he replied. I don’t remember if I answered at all or if I just went into my room and tried to compose myself. This morning rambling hot pink roses at the beach lounge and linger, wrapping themselves around a venerable split rail fence in a marsh where a cabin was. Only the shake roof is still visible above the waterline. The tide now comes within a hundred yards of the place, and beach sand, vetch, wild radish, ice plants are next door neighbors. Black-tailed deer on the steep grassy hill across the road look up from feeding, unalarmed. They trot a few steps closer, not away. Then, satisfied Luke and I love them (Luke would love to chase them for the exercise) the deer wander back to their fresh breakfast. I would love to clip and take some roses home, but that’s like taking the deer and whole beach home.
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