Dan took the porch steps two at a time, something his joints would remind him of later. He did another spot check…extreme beach toys in an attractive bin, enough propane for the grill, latest Nickelodeon DVDs, even a vase of begrudgingly-bought fresh flowers.
He was anxious for their arrival. It was time to fill up this sagging cottage with proper activity. Dan looked forward to golfing with his son-in-law and teaching his daughter Bridge. He might even discuss his plans with the kids to sell this property.
He didn’t think of his wife much these days. But he knew, as soon as he slathered sunscreen on the translucent skin of his grandchildren, he would remember her. That no-melanin Irish skin, that incorrigible, kinky red hair (why did she refuse to cut it?!), that passion burning for everything but him.
Dan felt no guilt about not missing her. She had not once accompanied him to the Club. She poured money into this old barrier island place, which was mostly supported by sentiment anyway. She never even went to mass.
How their thirty-year old marriage survived was a divine mystery. Yet, he knew the fact that it survived meant that she did not.
From John Dufresne's Writing Exercises: Place your first love in your current setting, house, life
