Don’t it always seem to go

Don’t it always seem to go

I arrived on the Cape in a very small plane. I was wearing, rust-colored cords, brown tweed blazer, and a self-fashioned bandana crop top. Sounds like a Joni Mitchell song. * 

Don’t it always seem to go 
That you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone
Ooh, bop-bop-bop-bop, ooh, bop-bop-bop-bop

I was meeting up with Gavin and his 8-year-old son, Daniel for a week I Wellfleet, a village at the ‘nook of Cape Cod’s crook’. Always feeling a bit inferior to Gavin—he was a brilliant criminal attorney—I was determined to make a notable entrance, but  . . . exiting the plane to the tarmac on rickety aluminum stairs, my bandana came untied. 

Not the entrance to impress. 

I hugged the cloth to my bosom.  

Gavin’s welcoming hug was less than enthusiastic.  

Not saying it was because of my transgression, but we broke up soon after we returned home.