you cannot bring the sea

I fell in love with this saltbox house in Maine last summer. (I've fallen in love with dozens of saltbox houses over past summers, but at the moment, one in particular comes to mind). Its shingles were weathered and gray from sipping the salty air. The entryway had an arched portico, the ellipse adding a softness to the square-ish six-panel red door. Above the door was a transom window with a starfish in each of the five panes. The sidelights added just the right entry oomph. And, to top it all off (this was the selling point for me) the door knocker was a gold anchor. It was unlike any I'd ever seen. Simple. Nautical. No fussy rope or scrolling ends. Just a plain golden anchor. This was indeed the perfect house by the sea.

I wanted to clasp my hands on the knocker and give the door a good rapping; To explore inside and find the drawer of sailing maps leading from port to port; To drink in the hydrangea blossoms that grew up the side of the house; To walk on the dock out back and furl the sail on the 12-meter sailboat; To tack and come about and never look back.

Today, I miss the sea. I miss the sound the wind makes as it passes through the tall yellowed grass, poking up proudly from the sand. I miss the sailboat silhouettes against the hazy night sky as the sun sets. I miss patio dining with twinkling white globe lights and fresh lemonade. I miss walking on the two-way road between Portsmouth and Kittery, snapping my camera at every saltbox house in site. I miss the car rides, the togetherness and our perfect watch tower at Hyannis Port. I miss seaside ice cream shacks, sand between my toes and sun on my face. Today, I miss the sea.