
We walked down to a beach. No one was around.

When we passed the Kepes' house, I told Sven that they had been friends of my parents. Gyorgy was Hungarian. They were both artists. We have a watercolor upstairs Juliet did of birds. The house sits perched on a gentle wooded slope, completely surrounded by nature. What a peaceful place to paint! I peered in one window and saw some unfinished canvases, tucked away against a wall. There was a table under the deck, splattered with red, blue, yellow and green. We imagined their lives. Swimming at their private beach, gaily calling to grandchildren, eating at the picnic table outside illuminated by the sun setting at the far side of the pond. Sven commented how sad it is that they are not with us anymore. People die. Life continues.
We pushed on. Being a Lyme-Disease veteran, I couldn't help but notice the dead oak leaves everywhere, a perfect bed for deer ticks. No doubt there were many sleeping in the underbrush. I worry about the foreign tourists who hike through the National Seashore during the summer, ignorant of the danger ticks present, people who may return home infected with Borrelia.
We passed a real estate sign indicating a cottage for sale. The small building needed repair.
