Of the Mustang, Promises and Driftwood with Accessories

This evening I took a life weary friend to a jazz concert, when she pushed the mustang’s window button it fell into the door. My friend became even more discouraged, as she took it as a sign of even more bad luck. I figured it punctuates my desire not to sell it. Either that or I am only suppose to drive in it alone. Fun being my raison d’etre I prefer to think it means I can’t possibly sell the car. We did enjoy the concert which was really one of Jazzy standards and caught up over dinner.

Claire and I had a lot of fun in the shiny old green mustang. Her old car died and she called me to pick her up about 50 miles away, we commuted in to different directions. Then she said that there had been a car she had been eyeing at the used car dealership. She said that she always wanted a Mustang convertible. I rarely drove it because I always believed that stick shifts were one person cars. Plus I hadn’t had one in years. We spent our free summer days riding up and down the fingers of the Maine and the Canadian Maritimes, along the arm of Cape Cod to the carnival fist and around the wild windblown hair of the White and Green Mountains. Now both driver and navigator, its sometimes a lonely ride. With the exception of my friend who is unable to drive these days, I rarely entice anyone to tag along this summer in the my smooth riding convertible. Birdsong and flowers blow through my hair.
As promised, I trace our travels. Its not really a chore. The places I go are beautiful. So far it has been mostly along the coast. We were drawn to the sea.

At Popham Beach, near the mouth of the Kennebec driftwood and beach lovers were strewn about. An unattended golden Labrador Retriever escaped toward the bay. Kids in the surf shouted with delight.
We walked a bit down the foggy strand towards. The Georgetown side appeared faintly through mist, a ghostly manse on a white banded cliff. Seguin Light was invisible in the fog. Rose buds and petals mingled with the sand and ashes intently spilled along beside the footprints.
As promised, I trace our travels. Its not really a chore. The places I go are beautiful. So far it has been mostly along the coast. We were drawn to the sea. I stare out beyond the surf and run the sand and ashes privately through my fingers, say a little prayer and remember a feather found or the barely visible pink rose petal jacket she wore, woven of love./body>