Now

Salt hangs in the air and there is no breeze.

Gnats and no-see-um's hover around me as Van Morrison sings Hymns on the Beloved Back Deck.

Fran's thousand shades of green drip with wetness though she's as lovely as ever, tactfully quiet and, as always, incredibly supportive.

Goddess wanders in and out of our home full of sleeping girls trying to prioritize who needs her most ... me or them?

Sarah and her daughters win as Goddess has positioned herself halfway between our bedroom where my wife slumbers and the girl's rooms, ready for whatever happens first.

The night was bothersome with me tossing and turning, worried I'd wake my wife, endless thunder booming in the distance and a militia of frogs croak about starting a Revolution.

At 3:02 in the morning I kiss Sarah's head and wander out to the deck.

Light rain falls on a warm summer night with no humidity.

There's no moon but stars play peek-a-boo behind the clouds.

The choir of cicada sing.

Half-an-hour later, I'm tossing and turning again, listening to the  thunder, watching the lightning and trying not to wake Sarah.

Light bubbles from the ocean so I kiss Sarah again, stumble downstairs to the outdoor shower where rain mixes with hot water as I lather, shave, wash and dry on the porch.

Then I'm off to the Breakfast Club for coffee and communion before returning home to the quietness of a home full of sleeping girls, a dog who loves us and Fran's watchful eye.

The island is more lush and green than I've ever seen it.

So is the future.

So is now.