Today's writing

Saint Orres comes as a possibility, a promise. It’s a word whispered on a drifting wind, something delicate and dancing. Most of all, it’s a chance to get the fuck out of Hippie Dodge, to breathe air polluted solely by us. We’d gone years ago when Jax was just a baby. He was six months old the day that we pulled up to the Sea Pines cabin and placed him on the bed wearing his tuxedo onesie. We took pictures the way we always took pictures, phones waving through the air, entreating a smile from a kid who didn’t know the meaning of the word. But somehow it worked. He grinned and we flashed and memories were made. His first taste of ice cream was at Cowlicks in Fort Bragg. Mushroom ice cream. Because of course. I can still see that selfie we took of the three of us – yes, I have been known to use words like selfie – us looking at him, him looking at the cone as if it was the answer to all of life’s questions. Magic like that.