How do I know when our vacation in Panama is nearly done?
We don’t buy any more salad greens. Gloria surveys the refrigerator, counts the meals we have left, and declares that we have enough.
The chilled white wine is down to the nubs, but I’m the only one drinking it this week and it hardly makes sense to buy more.
We have chips but no salsa.
Everyone from the village who’s wanted to come to the beach for the day has come. Sally’s and my last days at the beach are indolent and fun — no little ones to throw in the air in the pool.
My skin, having been soaked in salt water and a chlorinated pool for two weeks, is practically pickled — despite liberal use of moisturizer.
We’ve savored the best of Gloria’s meals.
Minga and I have had our talk about death.
Sally and I have caught up on our bi-coastal friendship.
I stare at the 6:25am sunrise, not wanting to forget. I’ll never be done with this view.