Sometimes you have to remind yourself that the sun will hoist itself over a blue band of clouds and pause halfway like a plump yellow bulb, and on still mornings the mist hangs heavy above straw-grass marshes. Sea birds skid into the water feet first, and when they do, shaggy-haired dogs dance at the edge of the ocean and bark.
The tide thumps at the sea wall, or gathers itself back like a rumpled bedspread and far on the horizon, a granite lighthouse guards the waters it has protected for over 150 years.
Most of all you have to remember that whether or not you get a picture of some of it, or all, the images rest inside of you. When clouds hover, or the tectonic plates in your own life shift, they remain, ready for delivery. You can lay them out, like post cards from a brief vacation, a moment of respite from that which may tempt you to forget.