“…for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you,” – Walt Whitman, Song of Myself The seashore is a silent, desolate place in December. No children to colour it with the bright red and yellow of beach balls, buckets, and pails. No castles. No large and plush blue towels under creamy parasols and sweet, drip-dropping ice cream cones. In June, it will be warmer. Children – and I – can survive the cold on that promise: returning summer. Another quiet shore in Delaware Bay waits too; in May,… Read More