When you get off the highway, there's a gas station. It's the last one. After that, there's just a long road, a house here, a little restaurant there. Not much, though. Then you take a right. Another long road. Houses peek through the trees; I can see bricks and weathered shingles, a little more now that the leaves have fallen. The first time I came down here, I didn't even know those houses were there.
When you get to the end of that road, there's a cluster of houses by the water. One of them is mine. Better described, perhaps, as a room with a roof on it. Tiny; it's maybe the den of the house I left. And filled with baby and fresh flowers and baking gingerbread.
