Summer Home

My home is her summer home

and for years we crossed the same streets,

swam at the same beach,

dreamed our dreams under roofs

just down the road from the other’s.

 

Did I tread over your footprints in the sand,

following you as the sun set on yet another

humid January evening?

Did you ever catch a glimpse of me

at the supermarket, scanning your mother’s

groceries, asking for her rewards card?

Did I look at you, catch your eye, and did we

blush and quickly glance away,

shy and sweet and only sixteen?

 

It’s strange to think that

we could have known each other since childhood

await each summer for our reunion

but instead it has taken us all these years to meet

and I’m not sure why – was it planned this way,

written in the books that we should pass unnoticed

from day to day, leave fragments of ourselves

for the other to collect at the local op shop,

sense déjà vu in a history lecture because –

haven’t I seen that girl before?

A ghost of summers past.

 

The waves and salty air of Seaford pier are

yours, and mine

this suburb is a treasure to me and

it only makes me glad

that you are a frequent visitor here

and have grown beside me

with each new year.

 

 

 

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