Tonight, I went to the local community potluck. It was me and one elderly couple. She is a Finnish poet. He is a Greek short story writer. They have farmed for 40 years in the summer here. They write in the winter.
We shared food we had each grown and cooked, and watched the Canadian Geese fly south over us.
“I always write for two hours a day no matter what,” a stern Greek man told me. “More in the winter.”
She was more whimsical. “I have a poetry workshop at my house. It is closed to just a few of us Islanders. How long do you plan to be here? Not long? Yes?”
They said, “Oh, you are renting the Ginger Bread House. That’s what us Islanders call it.”
I said, “I’ll see you at next month’s pot luck. This is my last stop.”
Then, I met a dog and played with him at the marina. His girlfriend looked a lot like me. She had a farmer’s tan. We played fetch. I said, “So what do you do here?”
“Oh,” she said, “Whatever I can to get by. I garden. I house sit. I pet sit. My dad lives on a boat here.”
I nodded and threw the dog a stick.