Seventeen Steps to the Water

There are seventeen stone steps down to the little cove behind my aunt's cottage on the Maine coast. I've counted them since I was small, out loud, every summer.

This year I brought my partner for the first time. On the first morning I took their hand and counted the steps out loud, the way I always do, and felt a little silly. They didn't say a word. They just counted with me.

At the bottom the water was flat and freezing and smelled like salt and seaweed. We sat on the rocks with our feet in it and watched a seal pop its head up to inspect us. My aunt came down later with two mugs of coffee and pretended not to be pleased that I'd finally brought someone.

On the last morning my partner counted the steps first, without me. I'll never forget that. Some places become even more yours when you share them.