I spent the holiday weekend visiting my little brother in Maine.
He’s not even three years younger than me, so I’m not sure why I insist on exclusively referring to him as “my little brother” — it’s become a habit. But, his fridge is stocked with Blue Moon now and the leftovers of dinners he cooks for himself.
He’s spending the summer in Rockport, Maine, where he’s working as a photography assistant. He’s renting a little orange house, walking distance from the water. It’s the northern edge of the United States, where the West Penobscot Bay pours out into the Atlantic Ocean.
Here, the water is cool, the air is fresh, the blueberries are sweet, the trees are abundant. It’s the stuff storybook summers are made from.
I couldn’t have been happier.
We bought M&M cookies and watched the fireworks from the grass. All around us, little kids “ooohing” and “aaahing.”
We rented paddle boards and rowed out onto the middle of the lake, where we laid back, bellies soaking in the sun.
We brunched like kings, ordering entrees, plus sides of pancakes (blueberry for him and chocolate chip for me), and Cinnebons to share.
We read our books in silence, sitting on the rocks overlooking the Bay.
We walked up and down the Main Streets of Camden, Rockport and Rockland, taking in the tourists at the tee-shirt shops and searching for dairy-free ice cream.
He drove me to the airport with the windows down and the radio on. It was a good weekend, a good trip. I don’t know when I’ll see him next. But, I know we’ll always have Maine :)