We're walking the dogs beneath Palm Trees, diamonds glistening on the water of the Back River, breathing in the pungent aroma of the Marsh ... which is the smell of sex in the Tropics.
"It's too hot for Christmas," Laurel, Sarah's 10 year old says, gliding barefoot on her skateboard says.
"What?" I ask stopping in the middle of the road in front of Shirley Sessions house.
"Yeah," my beloved wife agrees with her beloved daughter, "It's too hot. Christmas should be cold."
"There should be snow," Laurel affirms.
I almost pee my pants.
"Who are these people?" I ask myself ... though smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
I like snowy Christmases ... on postcards people send us but that's as close as I want to get.
In the genealogical studies of my past I have no idea where my love of beaches, sunshine, Shag music, clothing optional beaches and seafood come from ... but I am overly infected.
I love Laurel the 10 year old but ... she's 10 ... she doesn't know shit.
I adore Sarah my wife ... especially when she's dripping in salt water for a photo shoot in the Bahamas ... but I think her brain is still thawing out from too many cold Christmases ... in shitty weather ... with a man she didn't love ... and a Mother-in-Law from Hell who thinks she's Heavenly.
In the middle of the street ... in front of Shirley's house ... I just want to hug them ... love them through it ... go home ... plan for where it's warm.
Tybee Island's nice most of the time.
Yeah we hire Nazis for cops and give them authority to do whatever-the-Hell-they-want ... but they're not so bad ... compared to Parking Services ... or the recycling people who throw the trash in the same truck as the garbage ... but the winter's suck!
"You always want to go somewhere," the love of my life asks this morning because I have the heater on and the sliding glass doors open.
Sliding the sliding glass doors shut, I choose warm ... though I love outside.
"Can't you just be happy to be here?" she asks pouring syrup on the Waffle Lenny send her from the Breakfast Club.
"I'm very happy," I explain, "but I'd rather be warmer."
You can never be warm enough ... unless you're in a Nursing Home ... where it's hot as Hell ... because it is.
Turning the corner at the house where Art used to live, the dogs go nuts looking for our dead friend, and Laurel asks, "Are we going to Belize?"
"Now you talking," I say.
Sarah rolls her eyes.
I can't wait!
I love my wife!
