At the beach

She would kill me if she knew this was on the internet.
She would kill me if she knew this was on the internet.

On Tuesday it stormed, bursts of rain landing on the dirty carpets, so strong we had to close the windows. We watched “Sweet Home Alabama” and made cocktails (mocktails for me) and squeezed onto the L-shaped couch, the perfect size for the six of us. This year’s house liked to sway in the wind, even when there was very little of it–it’s on stilts, it’s normal, we’re told–and as we rocked I was surprised at how many lines from the film I could quote from memory. I didn’t think I’d seen it that often.

On our last full day I lay in bed a while, listening. There was a sharp breeze coming in the window next to me, a perfect beach wind, the kind you don’t get on the mainland. Everyone else was up but they left me alone in my room and I felt that wind and thought about how the island is in my bones and blood, my genealogy. It’s in my skin, too. Literally. On my first day of vacation I got two splinters in my palm from the deck chair; one so tiny I left it, hoping it’d work its way out. Ten days later it’s still here, a beauty mark reminder of my vacation. A freckle, embedded.

One night after dinner my friends went to the local bar, an old favorite, but at six months pregnant I knew the bar stools would hurt so I visited my grandmother on her front porch; the house I grew up in, watching that special kind of island darkness fall over us. New York is never dark. I drink it in. Dark is important sometimes.

We rocked in our chairs and just watched. Earlier this summer we unearthed boxes of old photos in the attic and went through them, Instagramming the best ones, finding a sense of unexpected pride in my grandmother in her bathing suit, tan long legs, hair perfectly waved over her eyebrow. My family; the faces I’ll never know but that kind of look like me. For every sepia woman we didn’t recognize my grandmother would say, “Oh, that was probably one of my brother’s girlfriends. He had a lot of them.” And we would laugh and I would secretly be glad, because that’s like my own brother, a guy who is never without a serious relationship; the antithesis of me before slipping into a marriage I now can’t imagine my life without.

Later, when my friends were still at the bar but it was time for me to go, my mom drove me back to my rental. We took a detour to the south end of the island, looking through the knotty pines at the abandoned train station, dark and obviously haunted, and at her new favorite house on the bay, the one that seems too big for its lot. The streets there are wide, empty. Quiet.

This is what I always forget about when I’m not here: the space. There’s so much of it for the taking.

 

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One Response to At the beach

  1. JillyB says:

    Best post ever. Your words are beautiful.

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