We were at odds with one another and I was the cause. I wanted him to go before he had to so I could figure out if this was going to work, while he was here, ask him questions, directions, whether he thought my ideas were crazy. Was this all wrong, walking along the pathway that was named – The Coastal route – in the Bay of Fundy, seeing more wood than anything I had ever experienced out west. Three layers of green canopy engulfed us with moss, grass, leaves, needles, shrubs and evergreens. Whirling through ideas, what to purchase, what to photograph, being slept deprived, holding on to let go, was replacing my immediate joy with sheer, raw, unprocessed fear.
Beauty had long since left my eyes, the wondrous windy road to Fundy is filled with magic. Quaint town hosting historical trains, planes and automobiles, even a St. Hubert which had eluded us thus far, and tourist’s shops hosting Acadian flags, and everything red, white, and blue of the region. Cinnamon Soul Café captured my heart, in all the angst I was feeling the word soul, soothed out what Bridget Jones called the bubbly bits we all hang onto. Besides cinnamon spice conjures - steaming rolls in the morning, dashes in Indian meals to sweeten them, sprinkles on your cocoa, muesli, and of course on a latte.
Scents of ocean salt we had become accustomed to were now acerbic on my nose. Hal bounced along the trails admiring the long grasses, like mermaids hair wrapped around rocks submerged in the water. Red wet soil coated our feet as we waded out for a kilometers into a low tidal pool towards the opening of the ocean. Hal walked barefoot, a $200.00 massage for free. Webbed feet would have enticed me any other day, today I needed the reassurance of dry, stability, a pillar to lean on. These red waters travels for hundreds of kilometers up into Moncton tidal pools, famous for the height differences that occur daily. Words fight in my head and I pressed to remain quiet.
Scents of ocean salt we had become accustomed to were now acerbic on my nose. Hal bounced along the trails admiring the long grasses, like mermaids hair wrapped around rocks submerged in the water. Red wet soil coated our feet as we waded out for a kilometers into a low tidal pool towards the opening of the ocean. Hal walked barefoot, a $200.00 massage for free. Webbed feet would have enticed me any other day, today I needed the reassurance of dry, stability, a pillar to lean on. These red waters travels for hundreds of kilometers up into Moncton tidal pools, famous for the height differences that occur daily. Words fight in my head and I pressed to remain quiet.
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