The blue sky turns to gray and I am walking.
Up the grassy hill, the back strap of my chacos escaping me as I climb.
My muscles ache from the day before, the good kind of ache that gives you hope for toned limbs just in time for summer.
The grass is soft, silky.
I have always loved the smell of grass, ever since I was a child.
It reminds me of my brothers’ soccer games under that Alabama sun that you love and hate all at the same time.
All of the younger sisters at the game would drift away inch by inch, climbing trees in our dresses and coming back with new stains to brag about.
We ate up attention like it was our job.
Then the team would eat oranges after the game and smell like sweat all the way home.
My back is to the boats.
I hear them sneaking up behind me, ready to tag me and say that I am “it” next.
They are slow but they are graceful, like the kind of Southern ladies that always remember to wear their pearls to the parties and smile and nod when they have nothing nice to say.
I love being a stranger in a new city.
I am the guest, the visitor, the neighbor next door stopping by to introduce myself.
The city of Portland, Maine is calm and kind with the wind of San Francisco.
It reminds me of a best friend’s grandmother that serves lemonade and asks you to make yourself at home, but really means it.
Wrinkled hands and big, rosy cheeks.
Loud hair and loud jewelry.
Nice to meet you, Portland.
It's been a real pleasure.