Full Moon

Smiles come easy after a long drive.  We'd woken at half past three and filled the wagon up with the necessary doohickies and doodads like various waxes, rubber t-shirts and ripe peaches.  Rockaway, looking oddly unbeautiful beneath the low slung red moon, lay flat and unbaying.  Chris' new Boca Junior's inspired sidewalk trembled with anxiety, muttering inconsolably as the waferish Patagonia fun board and the big yellow Anderson tried to sooth the situation with calming words of inevitability maths. From the 60s to the 90s back to the 60s we poked around, glum, perhaps bowed.  But cooler heads, or hotter ones, prevailed sending us up the road to Long Beach which cupped in her wide hands the little ripples, letting them seep through with just enough knuckled shape.  The smiles do indeed come easy after a long drive.

And I am reminded of this old chestnut.