Let’s go to Kennebunkport.

Do you want to?

Maybe it will be fall when we go.

The leaves might be turning, and the cold wind from the North Atlantic will blow our hair back as we stand on the coast and look towards Nova Scotia.

I hope we do that.

But I am writing to confess.

The nicknames are out of control. Again.

K, we have taken to calling you “Kennebunkport” here and there.

In my head, it’s more of a: “Kenny-bung-port.”

And we don’t just say it.

It comes out sounding more like a song, or chant.

My Kenny-bunk-port! My Kenny-bunk-port! My Kenny-bunk-port!

We are ridiculous.

I know this.

We are all so glad you came to join us.

I love you.

-Dad