On My Last Day
On Saturday, the last day of my Chincoteague vacation, I woke up at 6AM. Everything that could be packed was already packed, so I took my unfinished book and read for a while. My family was planning to meet for breakfast at 8. I didn't have time for much else. Then the island called to me. The island told me I still had time. I shouldn't spend these precious hours in a hotel room killing those final minutes with a book. The ocean sang to me. The sun shone through the trees and sparkled on the water. They drew my attention away from conventional things like books and my bed. Time was running out. It was nearly 6:30 by the time I stopped ignoring the world outside my hotel balcony. Did I have time for one last adventure? What if I ended up taking too much time and made my family wait for me? They might be angry. What would be worse? Is a late breakfast a worse tragedy than regretting the time I didn't spend outsid...