Fire sirens

We arrived hot sweaty, excited anticipation, avoiding a scrumpy stubby rose bush, falling out and grabbing whatever and whoever, inside, stuffy hot crowded with age old relics of old old generations. Perfection. Cobwebs next to buckets, grass burned to straw. Breaking through dust that settles comfortably between years weeks days waiting for the next lot of bachers. Heat that can only be broken one way. Umbrella, towels and legs stick haphazardly into sun and sand. Salt that stings eyes and a type of refreshing cold that evaporates when you leave the blue. Hunger always drives you. Back to the small weather boards cobwebs and hay like grass. A dinner that has been preceedex by far to many snacks to feel comfortable. A smell lingers on cloth, sweet, musty a familiar stranger. Sun sets and wide smiles cartwheels and those dreaded few photos. Driving now. Hair in the wind, imagine dreadlocks
snaking from brown scalp. It is the right time to sink into the island listen for early morning-10am fire sirens. Something must be left behind in order for an excuse to be made to come again. The beds are decorated profusely proud in pink shagpile dating back to before I was born. Another night sticky hot in summers sheets. A night full of promises and remembrance and sleep. Listen for the little morning sounds, bird whistles? Dishes, bed spreads, yawns and stinking breath. Beach, pee, food, ice cream ok no more you'll have to roll me up hill. A mother stands in a different universe the mainland one. She doesn't sink into the island dirt as much as we know we do.