Tenderness

To belong to a place means that you feel tender toward it. You are concerned for its welfare. When you return to this place after an absence short or great, you are surprised by the feelings it evokes in you. You were not aware that you missed it, but you did.

The little things you notice now, the parade of ducks that create a traffic jam because motorists wait for them to pass (and this doesn’t irritate you), the sea grass that waves in the breeze, the antics of the sandpipers, the lugubrious horseshoe crabs (are they living or dead?), the egrets that look like an Egyptian hieroglyphic, the section of the beach that is sealed off by ropes to allow sea turtle eggs to mature in peace (and this doesn’t irritate you, either) — all of these familiars are made precious by repetition and knowledge.

And that view from the bridge, it still brings a gasp of delight. But now you look forward to it — because you know it is there.