(Loch)

Some second cousin eight times removed with a different name, on my father’s side married his sweetheart while stationed in Britain during the war. Later I learned it wasn’t that unusual. But at the ‘Why?’ stage in life, I was awestruck by her. The language was music to behold. When she said, “Let’s take the wee’uns to the loch this weekend,” she had me in her magnetic speech field, forever stuck.
Mother kept saying, “Why are you hanging around so much? Go play with the other kids in the sand.” Unable to escape her lingo cage, I looked forlornly towards the lake. The growing sand castles were enticing, but not powerful enough. Mother assumed it was my overabundant shyness, and gave in. “Oh, okay. But don’t interrupt Betty and me. We haven’t visited in a long time and have so much to catch up on.” She didn’t know I could never interrupt. The melodies from Betty’s throat flew like bluebirds, wrens, and butterflies gracefully about the table.
Even the compulsory washroom breaks were temporarily postponed until I sensed a break in dialogue, or either of them took their own compulsory break. Betty thought I was a weird hangabout.
When her man asked if I wished to go for a speedy ride in his boat, watching him try to manoeuvre my older water-skiing cousins into the loch, I refused. He assumed I was frightened of water, boats, speed, his gruff manner, cousins, and potential gross missiles from the gulls. He was wrong. He should have known better, because I suppose at one time he was equally as transfixed by his Goddess, albeit for other features beyond speech.
When night came by, I fought over the side of the tent that was closest to the fire and table, where the wondrous lilt continued until the sandman finally arrived, loosening the grip until dawn.