It wasn’t the possible president sighting or the teensy plane ride over from Boston. It wasn’t the lackadaisical way they loaded our luggage and us after security. It wasn’t the lack of streetlights or the blissful absence of McDonalds or Hiltons. It wasn’t the rough and rocky beach with the moderate houses and beach bungalows set back from the shore, the colorful smooth stones that reminded me of river rocks. It wasn’t the blue expanse of Atlantic or the perpetual perfect breeze. It wasn’t the accidental meeting of favorite author and Pulitzer winner David McCullough at the tiny grocery or the smoked bluefish pate’. It wasn’t the easy way we walked about the town of Menemsha, stopping by Pandora’s Box to buy cashmere sweaters in August. It wasn’t the farmer’s beautiful produce, the woven baskets, or the honor system at the flower stand on the side of the tree-lined road. It wasn’t the wild and twisted Beetlebung trees or the soft muzzle of the Belgian shepherd and his clear, brown eyes. It wasn’t the hammock under the white oaks or the pitcher of red and pink zinnias on the table in my room. It wasn’t the mixing of tempera turquoise and white and blue, the silky slick horizons we created on our own taut canvases. It wasn’t that we each cooked for each other, fresh food we blessed and ate with grace. It might have been the night we set the candles outside, lay flat on our backs, bundled in blankets, watching the black sky for hours, the Perseid meteors shooting one after another, our voices rising up as all our wishes drifted skyward, infinite and lit from within.