Marshmallow Fingers

The sun melts into the horizon as we pull out of the McDonald’s parking lot. Our conversation winds ceaselessly with the New England highway, save for the occasional bite of french fry or sip of soda. When we reach our exit, Route 6 is illuminated only by the flicker of distant tail lights and the promise of a weekend away.

The next morning, attempts to work from the Cape Cod cottage are futile. They soon unravel into a beach walk, followed by an Uno game so animated that the neighbors complain. We later shuck corn with legs dangling off the back porch. Clouds bob like balloons overhead, resisting as the wind tugs them eastward by the string. Erin grills cheeseburgers while Karlei slices a plump summer tomato. The soothing smell of a late August barbecue embraces us as we set the table.

When night falls, we pour wine into plastic cups and wander to the beach. Tall grass grazes our feet until they sink into sand. We search for sticks in the brush and build a bonfire by flashlight. Marshmallows make our fingers sticky and wine makes our laughter light. The song of familiar stories mingles with the crackling fire as the moon smiles down.