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by Jane Lang I bought a clock for you the first day, in a small shop behind a bakery wafting tantalizing scents of decadence and sugar…no chocolate for me, I'm more a caramel person, and apple fritters call my name We had docked at a small marina in a cozy seaside part of Canada, large by its name. Painted murals on nearly all the outside walls, mostly a concrete of some type, many brightly-colored wooden benches The clock was brass, shaped like the wheel of our old boat. It sat on the cherry-wood, smooth ledge above the TV in this new boat, spanned the length of the salon. You were pleased—we stayed three nights as I recall—not once did I cook a meal When we left, after lines were stowed, fenders in I looked back at the small town with the large name I knew I'd remember it—the salt air tang, murals, sun-drenched sand as well as gulls as they circled, called, dived
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