Nana would take us to Maine in the summer for vacation and we would stay in a house in Winthrop. It rested high and proud on a crystal-clear lake.
We slept with the windows open. The night air was crisp and clean and would always find its way to my bare face causing me to tuck the blanket tightly between my chin and neck.
Although my peaceful childhood trips to Maine were over thirty years ago, the call of the loon still haunts me. I wonder if and when I will even hear one again, or where I would even go.
Today’s post serves as an ode to the loon, the one I choose to believe is the same loon who called to only me each summer for seven days. If you see her, tell her I miss her.
Teresa Forester Adams 