The first time we were going to Maine — May 2020 — it was three nights in a “stunning 1 bdrm apt” in Portland, two nights in a “custom designed tree dwelling” in Georgetown, and three nights in a cottage in Bar Harbor with “a sunny (usually) porch.” Why Maine? I don’t even remember. The goal was to avoid Mother’s Day, the anniversary of two-thirds of my miscarriages up to that point, although it would be Mother’s Day in Maine, too, I realized eventually, so I guess the true goal was just to be sad somewhere I’d never been sad before. Despite the volume and frequency of my sadness, many fine locations qualified! But Maine had seafood and beer and crags and trees, and legal weed, and this bagel place our friends really liked, and the LL Bean store with the really big boot? And Joe liked the sound of it too. So I booked the rooms, the flights, the rental car. We would obliterate the cursed day with air travel, then spend the week nestling deep into one limbo inside another inside another.