The ferry bumps to a stop, and I make my way to the dock. I am greeted by my spectacled, balding, bearded friend. We laugh at the circumstances of my travel. He drives, and I take in the sights. A celebration awaits us later that night, and I am introduced to Race Rocks--over time this acquaintance becomes a longed for friend. The money looks different, but it makes me comfortable while I pay for my coffee at the storefront next to the bowling green. I finish a book while the sun burns me, and at intervals I gaze at the beautiful Pacific. Too many good conversations, past and present, only to realize that this is not the end of my travels.
It was a great ceremony and people left happy. We finished it out at the coffee bar down the street. I spent most of the time on the porch, talking with people who were related to me by one common bond, the region where we were born. I imagined the place as it was sung, Girl of the North Country, while I longed to hear the song about the lions. I departed the same way that I came, and took with me memories that old age will have to fight me for.
Old poem written three years ago.
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