Our front doors are white – French doors – they lock with an old fashioned iron key that is cold and heavy in one’s hand. They open out onto a concrete deck, painted peach (or maybe it’s a faded sunset orange) with matching stairs down to a grassy lawn that is framed with white-washed walls, rambling guesthouse buildings, gardens, a patio, a pool.
There is no back door but out the front I see the ever present mountains rising into a clear blue sky. They are topped with the jagged grey rocks I have already climbed.
In front of the mountains, green trees wave in the wind, lit golden with the late afternoon sun.
Between the trees are rooftops of tin and clay and slate in green and terracotta and grey and silver.
In front of them, palm fronds flutter and rattle against fences.
Nearby, olive trees trimmed with ripening olives hang over white washed walls.
Hens and dogs and birds frolic on a close-cropped lawn.
The wind-tossed shadows mingle, playing across the scene with the sound of voices, tinkling laughter, the faint scents of the surf and of grilling fish.
Soon, the sun will slip below the trees and roofs, below the sea.
First, the golden crescent moon will rise and then millions of stars will spill in a milky streak across the darkened canvas of the heavens.
Orion and the Southern Cross and constellations I’ve never seen before will burst brightly out of the blackness.
Perhaps I will glimpse a shooting star out of the corner of my eye, stand for a moment and make a wish, while I listen to the rustling of the trees and the crashing of the waves.
Below, all will be shadow, lit here and there by the glow of lights in house windows, until one by one they, too, will set, leaving the night to the crickets and the frogs.