"Sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over..." ~ Jane Eyre

It is eight o'clock on a Sunday morning and the sunroof to the Mercedes is wide open; the wind it creates sounds like waves crashing on my roof as I drive down the Meadowbrook Parkway. The local rock station is hosting its weekly Breakfast with the Beatles and I sing along to "Eight Days a Week." For the first time in my life, I understand what the song truly means. I sing thinking about the Prince and how seven days aren't enough to contain all the love I have for him, and how my passion for him is infinite. I cross over the first ramp and turn onto the Loop Parkway, staring at the sailboats in front of me, wondering if there is some kind of regatta this morning. I am slightly over the speed limit, anxious to get to the shoreline and walk all morning with seafoam at my feet. Once I arrive to the shore, I breathe in deep and test the waters - August ocean temperature on Long Island is perfect. I take my bottle of water out, set my small speedometer, and begin walking east on the shoreline, dodging pockets of seaweed and an occasional jellyfish along the way. The waters are as calm as my soul this morning. I stare into the horizon and see more sailboats and finally spot my favorite boat - a shrimp boat - puttering along the water. Wondering if there are any sharks out there, I feel sad that Shark Week is over on Discovery Channel not just because I love watching the programs, but because each night this week I was with the Prince watching them with him, dubbing it all "shark porn" and sharing root beer floats and Swedish Fish as we saw Great Whites chomping on raw tuna. He promised one day when he makes partner we will fly to South Africa and do cage diving with the Great Whites, and I smile thinking about that future adventure with him and how hot he will look in a wet suit. At one point on my walk, a butterfly crosses my path and flies all around me at the tip of the shore, creating a beautiful striking contrast of the aqua water in its background and its stark orange colors in the forefront. I walk along and contemplate going swimming - the water is just perfect - but I am still too timid to go in after the tragedies of last week on the shores of New York. Eventually I end my exercise regime and place a towel on the sand and lay down for a nap, dreaming of a place I am most relaxed. Ironically, it used to be the beach, but now when I close my eyes and picture where I am at perfect relaxation and bliss, I think about his bed instead. The seagulls are squawking more loudly as more beach goers arrive with breakfasts of bagels or yogurt parfaits or fruit salad. I remember I cant stay long because I have to go home and frost my homemade Smores cupcakes for a barbecue this afternoon, and I smile because I am so excited for the feast. Its me, my sisters, and our significant others along with Jack. I grab my backpack and pack up my towel, breathing in some more sea salt before I venture back to land...