Tilghman's Island by Wattsnan_poetry

The air felt like summer's friend; maybe a sibling, older and wiser. It had an autumn calm that threaded her tires as she crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Sails, each filled with the season's last breath puffing toward the horizon, caught the corner of her eye. And her thoughts turned whimsical.

Memories, like candid snap shots of a playful summer's afternoon, filled her head: Dark hair, dimpled cheeks, and eyes that spoke to her when he smiled. Golden tan, early August heat, and a cool wind that skirted through her sundress as she emerged from her car. These were the flashes that gave texture to her dreams.

She met him at a road side stand while picking fresh produce: A pint of strawberries so ripe one could not tell where the berry ended and the edge of her lips began. Then there were the peaches; succulent and soft, with chin dripping juices that seep from the corners of your mouth, and he, with his roguish good looks. He helped her to her car. Placing the basket of fruits in her trunk, their fingers grazed one another, and emotions stirred.

Today it was the smell of Old Bay permeating the air that drove her toward Tilgman's Island. Trucks clawing the curb-sides posted signs tolling Steamed Crabs and her heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again. But the fruit carts now hosted squash and zucchini. Fields once green with watermelon, grew pumpkins for suburban front porches.

Down shifting, the engine slowed as her Audi TT convertible crunched pebbles, rumbling into that same snapshot in time. Engaging in conversation over the fall flowers and Indian corn displays, she casually inquired of the young man who had helped her only a few months back. “College”, was the reply. She nodded with an ironic acceptance; “mine too”, she acknowledged, smiling, and continued on her way to Tilghman's Island.

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