This should be a wedding, not a funeral. There should be smiles through the tears, tears shed for joy, shed because now in addition to daughter, sister, friend, girlfriend, she becomes wife, and perhaps someday mother. We should cry because we know she will change and her relationship to us will change, but we know she will be happier for it. She should be standing here, laughing, pleased that so many people came to share this moment with her.
I couldn't escape these thoughts, the feeling of everything being so wrong.
But instead of standing before the assembled crowd, Amy lay still in that polished wooden casket at the front of the church--beautiful, tiny Amy, her face probably still framed by those perfect strawberry ringlets, except this time her eyes won't light up with merriment and mischief. They'll never light again.
I've been to funerals before, including funerals of those close to me, the most memorable being my grandmother's, just a shade over 3 years ago. In most of those instances, though, even though the deaths weren't necessarily expected, they made sense in my schemata of how life progresses; the older people in your life slowly fall away. This, however, was my first funeral for someone my age that I'd considered a friend. I'm having a hard time with it still. I ache. My sinus cavities feel like I've been crying for days, which isn't entirely untrue, and a general malaise has settled itself in my breast. It just aches. I can't stop thinking about it, about her, about her dying (god it's such a difficult word to utter). I can't stop thinking about--and hurting for--all those who were closest to her, those people whose lives now have big gaps that used to be filled by Amy.
I know her parents are a wreck; parents who lose a child always are, and I wish there was something I could do or say to make this not haunt them for the rest of their lives. Parents expect their children to bury them, not to bury their children. I've known this family for...god, fifteen years, and I know how close Amy was to her parents and how much they loved her. Something will always be missing during Christmas and birthdays. Moving forward, her bright smile will no longer appear in family photographs. Significant anniversaries of hers will never go unnoted, but now they will be acknowledged with mourning instead of celebration. How will they answer when asked if they have children? Do you ever get used to that look on people's faces when they learn your child has died?
Amy's younger sister has been one of my dearest friends for three quarters of my life, and I know Amy was, really, her best friend. I can't begin to imagine just how hard it will be when she picks up the phone to call Amy and tell her some silly anecdote or good news and then puts it down again when she realizes there will never again be anyone at the end of that line. She's known her older sister better than anyone in our peer group for as long as she's been alive. Amy helped shape the person she is today. She was a never-ending source of unjudgmental love and support. They've shared so many memories, so many private jokes, practically a language that no one else could fully understand, and they had so many more to share. Their children were meant to play in the dirt together, finger paint pictures together, perform creative skits they've co-written for their mom's and aunt's joint entertainment. Robin and Amy would see shadows of themselves in these small people and smile at each other knowingly. But now Robin's children will have no adorably petite and possibly redheaded cousins, and she won't call her sister to tell her about the kids or the cats or e-mail her to find out how to care for the baby raccoon or opossum she may one day find abandoned in her back yard.
And Christian...this one hit home for me hard, because just imagining what he must be going through, what he will continue to go through for a long time, still takes my breath away. I can't pretend to fully fathom what it must be like to love someone so thoroughly that you'd change many of your destructive ways, to know that you've found the person with whom you want to spend the rest of your life, to wake up next to that person every day for the past few years, and more than that, seeing her at work every day too, feeling like the luckiest man alive every time she smiles at you, and then having that all ripped away so soon when you thought you had years to share your hopes and dreams and struggles and triumphs. How do you get back in the bed you shared and fall asleep without holding the person you expected to hold until you were both aged, greyer versions of yourselves? Really I barely know him, but I can't stop thinking about him.
I still struggle to make sense of this. I want to find a reason that this happened, to understand why, to reconcile to myself that despite the unfairness of the situation, it's going to be okay because there's really a purpose behind it all.
Yet one thing that's become painfully clear to me is that sometimes there aren't reasons that bad things happen to good people, and sometimes life is just not fair.
When you're young, no one ever warns you that this is what life has in store--that slowly, one by one, you lose the people who mean the most to you, or they lose you. Your elders tell you about all the wonderful things that can happen to you throughout life--finding a passion and a career, falling in love, raising children, creating a home. But people don't talk about death's pervasive presence and how it will play a profound role in the course of your life.
So here: the only thing I can take away from this is that life is tenuous at best. Nothing's a sure bet, no matter how hard we work to lead a good life and no matter how perfectly we construct our worlds. However, the things that really make life worth living are the people we know and love. They add a richness and depth to our short terrestrial experience that can't be paralleled by any kind of object or success, but sadly, we never know how long we have with them.
Of course I can go on to espouse the necessity of making the most of every possible moment, of sucking the marrow from life, but anyone who has ever grown up and lived the day-to-day grind can tell you that all that "dance as if no one can see you" (and do it all the time) crap is not realistic. We should, however, never fail to tell those we love what they mean to us. They're the ones who make the marrow sucking and silly dancing experiences significant. And who knows; tomorrow we may not be able to tell them all the things they do that saturate us with so much joy we feel like our chests will explode, the ways that they fill our lives and allow us to go to bed happy to have lived another day.
I say this in writing, and it will live on the internet in a blog that hardly anyone ever reads. I will sound to the cyberworld like I am a person who is not afraid to love and to express love. In reality, though, I grapple with communicating my feelings for people. I am afraid. I'm afraid that saying how I feel will make me vulnerable to worlds of pain and I suppose I believe that I can control my susceptibility to heartache through rejection or abandonment or death by never orally validating the things I think (despite my best efforts to put those thoughts away). "If you don't want to talk about it, then it isn't love," right? But can I live with that?
So maybe, just maybe, one tiny, tiny good thing can come from this horrible tragedy. Perhaps this confrontation with the reality of life and loss can allow me to stop being so afraid to say what I feel, to stop being so scared of getting hurt that the words I want to say die behind my lips. Because really, wouldn't the haunting ache of things left unsaid be much more painful?
PS. Robin, I love you and your family.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Arduous Ardor: Mass Transit Dependence
Staring down the dark subway tunnel at 2 am on a Friday night, wondering when then train will come and knowing that when it does it will still be more than an hour before arriving at my own stop, I muse that my reliance on the subway is like being involved in codependent and not entirely healthy relationship with one very fickle lover.
As a starry-eyed small town girl who had only ever been involved with automobiles and highways, naturally I was at once swept off my feet by the subway's urban style and efficiency. I was passionate about the train; thrilled at the swipe of my Metrocard and clatter-clack of the turnstiles that admitted me to the busy subterranean transportation hubs of New York. I always stood anxiously near the edge of the platform so that I could feel the first faint currents that indicated a train's arrival lift the light hairs off my forehead to tickle my face and then experience the rush of air that blew all my hair back off my shoulders as the cars were propelled into the station to come to a screeching halt. I'd eagerly push my way aboard crowded cars and gaze around at the faces of all the other straphangers who doubtless were as enthralled that they too could use such a wonderful form of transportation on a daily basis. My love for the subway was at times overwhelming; how had I ever lived without it, and how could I ever return to a world that only relied on gridlocked interstates and gas-guzzling cars? My subway was such a beautiful thing; it took me everywhere I needed to go, kept me warm when it was cold outside, gave me shelter from the wind and rain, provided light for me to read and endless entertainment if I should choose to just sit back and observe. I thought about the subway all the time, couldn't wait for the moments when I could find myself reunited with it to explore its intricacies, prowl its hidden passages, gaze at the strangely-placed but nonetheless beautiful art and structures that would appear when I least expected them. I threw myself headlong into our new and wondrous relationship, knowing that this was something so real it just had to last forever.
Everything was nearly perfect for several months, but then cracks in our relationship started to appear. I started to notice that despite the initial appearance of overwhelming glamour and good looks, often my train was dirty, and indeed older than it first led me to believe. I began to notice that despite my promptness to our platform rendezvous, I was often left standing, waiting impatiently for long stretches of time. When it finally did show it was never apologetic, although my irritability always subsided after a few minutes of taking a seat. Still, what else could possibly offer me everything the subway had given me since we’d met?
As more time passed, our relationship began to degenerate further, and I began to lose patience. I began to find myself abandoned for longer periods of time, and later at night at that. There I’d be, alone, tired, and sometimes unnerved by the presence of strange and slightly unhinged people around me, and instead of promptly sweeping me to the safety and comfort of my home, the subway would leave me standing there in the chill darkness. Then there would be periods of days, usually weekends, when it just would not come at all; service was suspended and I was left stranded. Sometimes the MTA would give me notice and sometimes it would not; I would find out by being brought to a halt in my descent down the stairs by tape blocking them off and a sign that offered little information and no apology. At first, during these times I’d feel abandoned and nearly helpless; after all, I’d grown so reliant on the subway that I had never really considered other options. Later despair turned to anger, and those feelings of resentment that had begun to simmer below the surface finally exploded into fury. I'd curse, I'd rage and I'd cry until I swore that I was through with the train and its fickle, unpredictable ways. I’d find something else to satisfy my commutation needs, subway be damned. But always, always on Monday mornings I’d find myself, despite my better judgment but compelled by a need bordering on dependence, crawling back to the station and into the awaiting embrace of the train’s sliding doors.
I started to notice other girls around me happily coupled off with other means of transport. There were the handsome tuxedoed chauffeured limousines, the absolute royalty of transportation, clearly in a social class well above my modest means, but dazzling enough to make a girl dream. There were the prosperous-looking black sedans, sleek but not showy, that promised warmth, care, and security. There were the more blue-collar yellow taxi cabs that are in many ways the visual representation of both the city and the American dream; they work long and trying hours, but they have drive and determination, and at the end of the day they make a living and look forward to tomorrow’s promise. Then there were the old-fashioned city buses, which, although often slow, were dependable, steadfast, and offered a view of daylight and life at street level. I even was drawn to the granola-crunchy pedicabs, which promised an environmentally-friendly alternative and could efficiently and uniquely convey you through the toughest street conditions, even if you did arrive a little wind-blown and occasionally frost-bitten. And yes, there was still my old faithful, my personal automobile that sat mostly parked and dusty under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, waiting patiently for me to come back to it and for things between us to be the way they used to be.
Yes I looked, I flirted, and I even had the occasional affair, but in the end, I always came back, always looked past the flaws in the train, and went for another ride. I don’t know what kind of bonds it uses to hold me in its grasp, but I’m nearly helpless against them. Perhaps it’s because the lows are so low, so terrible, that in contrast the highs seem that much better—much better, in fact, than anything I could ever find with any other style of vehicle. Maybe it’s that I can see its potential, can see all that the subway could be if its flaws could be repaired, and I hope against hope that someday it will change, and that perhaps by loving it I can help it change. Deep down, of course, part of me knows that there is nothing I can do; it is what it is, and no matter how much you care, you can’t change a thing’s inherent nature. I wonder, though, if I will ever have the courage and the means to change myself and my dependence on our relationship, or if I will continue chugging doggedly along down those underground tracks, wishing and hoping for something better, until the end of the line.
As a starry-eyed small town girl who had only ever been involved with automobiles and highways, naturally I was at once swept off my feet by the subway's urban style and efficiency. I was passionate about the train; thrilled at the swipe of my Metrocard and clatter-clack of the turnstiles that admitted me to the busy subterranean transportation hubs of New York. I always stood anxiously near the edge of the platform so that I could feel the first faint currents that indicated a train's arrival lift the light hairs off my forehead to tickle my face and then experience the rush of air that blew all my hair back off my shoulders as the cars were propelled into the station to come to a screeching halt. I'd eagerly push my way aboard crowded cars and gaze around at the faces of all the other straphangers who doubtless were as enthralled that they too could use such a wonderful form of transportation on a daily basis. My love for the subway was at times overwhelming; how had I ever lived without it, and how could I ever return to a world that only relied on gridlocked interstates and gas-guzzling cars? My subway was such a beautiful thing; it took me everywhere I needed to go, kept me warm when it was cold outside, gave me shelter from the wind and rain, provided light for me to read and endless entertainment if I should choose to just sit back and observe. I thought about the subway all the time, couldn't wait for the moments when I could find myself reunited with it to explore its intricacies, prowl its hidden passages, gaze at the strangely-placed but nonetheless beautiful art and structures that would appear when I least expected them. I threw myself headlong into our new and wondrous relationship, knowing that this was something so real it just had to last forever.
Everything was nearly perfect for several months, but then cracks in our relationship started to appear. I started to notice that despite the initial appearance of overwhelming glamour and good looks, often my train was dirty, and indeed older than it first led me to believe. I began to notice that despite my promptness to our platform rendezvous, I was often left standing, waiting impatiently for long stretches of time. When it finally did show it was never apologetic, although my irritability always subsided after a few minutes of taking a seat. Still, what else could possibly offer me everything the subway had given me since we’d met?
As more time passed, our relationship began to degenerate further, and I began to lose patience. I began to find myself abandoned for longer periods of time, and later at night at that. There I’d be, alone, tired, and sometimes unnerved by the presence of strange and slightly unhinged people around me, and instead of promptly sweeping me to the safety and comfort of my home, the subway would leave me standing there in the chill darkness. Then there would be periods of days, usually weekends, when it just would not come at all; service was suspended and I was left stranded. Sometimes the MTA would give me notice and sometimes it would not; I would find out by being brought to a halt in my descent down the stairs by tape blocking them off and a sign that offered little information and no apology. At first, during these times I’d feel abandoned and nearly helpless; after all, I’d grown so reliant on the subway that I had never really considered other options. Later despair turned to anger, and those feelings of resentment that had begun to simmer below the surface finally exploded into fury. I'd curse, I'd rage and I'd cry until I swore that I was through with the train and its fickle, unpredictable ways. I’d find something else to satisfy my commutation needs, subway be damned. But always, always on Monday mornings I’d find myself, despite my better judgment but compelled by a need bordering on dependence, crawling back to the station and into the awaiting embrace of the train’s sliding doors.
I started to notice other girls around me happily coupled off with other means of transport. There were the handsome tuxedoed chauffeured limousines, the absolute royalty of transportation, clearly in a social class well above my modest means, but dazzling enough to make a girl dream. There were the prosperous-looking black sedans, sleek but not showy, that promised warmth, care, and security. There were the more blue-collar yellow taxi cabs that are in many ways the visual representation of both the city and the American dream; they work long and trying hours, but they have drive and determination, and at the end of the day they make a living and look forward to tomorrow’s promise. Then there were the old-fashioned city buses, which, although often slow, were dependable, steadfast, and offered a view of daylight and life at street level. I even was drawn to the granola-crunchy pedicabs, which promised an environmentally-friendly alternative and could efficiently and uniquely convey you through the toughest street conditions, even if you did arrive a little wind-blown and occasionally frost-bitten. And yes, there was still my old faithful, my personal automobile that sat mostly parked and dusty under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, waiting patiently for me to come back to it and for things between us to be the way they used to be.
Yes I looked, I flirted, and I even had the occasional affair, but in the end, I always came back, always looked past the flaws in the train, and went for another ride. I don’t know what kind of bonds it uses to hold me in its grasp, but I’m nearly helpless against them. Perhaps it’s because the lows are so low, so terrible, that in contrast the highs seem that much better—much better, in fact, than anything I could ever find with any other style of vehicle. Maybe it’s that I can see its potential, can see all that the subway could be if its flaws could be repaired, and I hope against hope that someday it will change, and that perhaps by loving it I can help it change. Deep down, of course, part of me knows that there is nothing I can do; it is what it is, and no matter how much you care, you can’t change a thing’s inherent nature. I wonder, though, if I will ever have the courage and the means to change myself and my dependence on our relationship, or if I will continue chugging doggedly along down those underground tracks, wishing and hoping for something better, until the end of the line.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Tidal Reflections
You breathe in and savor the salt and faint smell of sulfur that indicates your proximity to the marsh, one foot dangling over the edge of the floating dock, toes touching the water and curling slightly at winter’s first bite. You exhale and feel your muscles relax completely—perhaps the first time in months—as you relish the unseasonable warmth of the south Georgia December sun. The river flows out, sighing softly as water slips past wood, grass, and debris, over mud and out to sea.
You’ve lived your whole life next to the water, and you begin to contemplate how it has threaded its way through your years, weaving itself into the fabric of your being. When you were young, your parents would take you to the pool, teaching you to hold your breath and jump as far forward as you could, away from the side of the pool and into the shallow end, letting your natural reflexes take over from there. Your mother would explain how to cup your hands and kick your legs so you could swim a little farther and a little faster each time, and she would always be there to catch you when you jumped into the deep end. They would take you to the beach and you would stand waist-deep in the surf, waiting with breathless anticipation for the next big wave, and just as its force started to push you backward, you would jump, propelled over the wave of course by your father, who all along was holding your hand, waiting to lift you into your gravity-defying leap.
As you got older, you’d find yourself wandering down the river to sit on the wooden planks of the dock and gaze out to the horizon. You’d think about your small world in the context of the of the large world you could sense just beyond your realm of experience and dream about where you would go and who you would become. Once you could drive, you’d go to the ocean at any opportunity to plunge into the surf and float atop the waves, feeling like you were part of something bigger and that the world held something in store for you.
For a time you moved away from the coast to the low, rolling foothills of north Georgia to broaden your mind, but always you’d find yourself drawn back to the water. By some twist of fate you’d inevitably find your residence next to a creek, a lake, or a river, and you’d walk along their edges often as you contemplated how the choices you made today would affect your future, Later when you thought you’d lost your way, the sound of flowing water or crashing waves would bring you comfort, would re-center you, and would allow you to set off once again with reaffirmed confidence and values.
Bittersweet memories of past loves are reflected back from moonlit liquid surfaces—moments that helped define you and the things you hold dear in another can always be resurrected in damp darkness. You were wearing a gold evening dress at a silver pond’s edge when one of your closest friends leaned in and kissed you, then confessed his feelings for you. Years later you found yourself slipping down a river bank with your best friend and partner in mischief in the middle of the night to escape the oppressive heat of your un-air conditioned dorm room at the end of a deep south August. The still air hung heavy with humidity and some kind of unvoiced anticipation as you both groped your way down the forested banks of the Oconee, finally reaching the water breathless and giggling. At your imperative he turned his back as you stripped off your clothing and plunged into the shallow water, and you ducked under and held your breath until he joined you. You resurfaced, gasping for air and laughing because you felt young, free, and deliriously happy. The two of you splashed about and, bit by bit, you began to realize that you were in love with him. An accidental brush of bare skin under water left you breathless and overwhelmed with joy because in his eyes, across that respectful distance he’d again placed between you, you saw that he loved you back. Months after that, you found yourself at the same river, crying as though you’d never stop as he made his way across another ocean and you stayed behind to reconfigure your heart with the pieces he added and the pieces he took away.
Gentle surf was the soundtrack as later you lay next to another boy on a beach—the same boy who’d already once left you feeling as if you’d be better off dead, but who all the same you loved so much you took him back. A waxing moon illuminated the still Florida waters as he confessed to you he’d marry you now if you’d have him, and you clasped him hard against you and choked back tears because you knew you couldn’t, no matter how much you cared about him. Shortly thereafter he left you again, this time for a west coast girl, and you put as much distance as you could between him and yourself, seeking solace in a south Pacific sea. By that deep azure water you wrote him letters you never mailed and then you plunged headlong into the present, submerging yourself completely in that sun-drenched life. Months later, after wandering solo up an entire coast, you emerged from the clear Australian surf and returned home whole again.
Later you found yourself speeding east without destination, blinded by tears and rage, your body wracked by infection and disgust. You stopped at a deserted winter’s shore and stumbled your way down to the sand, letting the bracing north Atlantic chill dry the tears from your face and the pounding sound of the icy surf drive the sounds of betrayal from your head. You returned to your home much later that day feeling purged—and liberated.
After finally giving up on trying to find someone to spread sunblock on your back, you learned to do it yourself and spent many a summer’s afternoon covered in sand in the happy company of your own thoughts. Quite unexpectedly, you were startled out of your quiet state of contentment by a blue-eyed stranger with a raucous laugh, and you soon found yourself searching for starfish on the Jersey shore, unable to stop smiling. The late afternoon’s lingering warmth and entanglements of bare, salty limbs left you feeling intoxicated, and the conversations that continued well after the sun slipped below the horizon gradually allowed you to let down your emotional wall and learn to trust again.
Now just a photograph of a slanted palm adjacent to turquoise water is enough to bring back an entire sensory memory. You can close your eyes and inhale once more the saline sea air, the smell of wet sand, the organic mustiness of drifting seaweed and other vegetation and natural debris. Your skin tingles with the sensation of a warm breeze drying salt water from your bare shoulders, the tickle of sand as it pushes between your toes, the feeling of the sun’s rays gradually turning you brown despite the sticky layers of sunblock you applied and reapplied. Your tongue passes over your lips to taste slightly bitter brine mingled with grit, and the sound of the gently crashing surf as it bubbles and ebbs around your ankles edges any other noise from inside your head and leaves you feeling silently peaceful. Your eyes drink in the vivid colors; the cerulean, emerald, and silver of the water, the clean white of the powder-fine sand, the brilliant azure of the sky, and the golden glow of all your surroundings imparted by a tropical sun. Your emotions range from overwhelming joy to absolute contentment, and you neither think of the past nor worry about the future; all that matters is that moment.
As your wandering mind returns to coastal Georgia and your spot on the floating dock, you sigh softly and roll over onto your stomach so that you can dangle an arm over the edge and touch the surface of the water. You run your fingers along the submerged edge of the dock and brush against the soft and slightly slimy squish of the colony of sea squirts that grows there. Coming home has been good for you; you finally feel rested and at ease after several long months of nearly continuous activity. You also, however, feel nearly ready to head back out into your now broader and more urban world. In this respect, you again feel yourself linked to the river; you are periodically drawn back toward home, but even though you may rest there awhile, you always flow back out toward the vastness of the ocean.
You’ve lived your whole life next to the water, and you begin to contemplate how it has threaded its way through your years, weaving itself into the fabric of your being. When you were young, your parents would take you to the pool, teaching you to hold your breath and jump as far forward as you could, away from the side of the pool and into the shallow end, letting your natural reflexes take over from there. Your mother would explain how to cup your hands and kick your legs so you could swim a little farther and a little faster each time, and she would always be there to catch you when you jumped into the deep end. They would take you to the beach and you would stand waist-deep in the surf, waiting with breathless anticipation for the next big wave, and just as its force started to push you backward, you would jump, propelled over the wave of course by your father, who all along was holding your hand, waiting to lift you into your gravity-defying leap.
As you got older, you’d find yourself wandering down the river to sit on the wooden planks of the dock and gaze out to the horizon. You’d think about your small world in the context of the of the large world you could sense just beyond your realm of experience and dream about where you would go and who you would become. Once you could drive, you’d go to the ocean at any opportunity to plunge into the surf and float atop the waves, feeling like you were part of something bigger and that the world held something in store for you.
For a time you moved away from the coast to the low, rolling foothills of north Georgia to broaden your mind, but always you’d find yourself drawn back to the water. By some twist of fate you’d inevitably find your residence next to a creek, a lake, or a river, and you’d walk along their edges often as you contemplated how the choices you made today would affect your future, Later when you thought you’d lost your way, the sound of flowing water or crashing waves would bring you comfort, would re-center you, and would allow you to set off once again with reaffirmed confidence and values.
Bittersweet memories of past loves are reflected back from moonlit liquid surfaces—moments that helped define you and the things you hold dear in another can always be resurrected in damp darkness. You were wearing a gold evening dress at a silver pond’s edge when one of your closest friends leaned in and kissed you, then confessed his feelings for you. Years later you found yourself slipping down a river bank with your best friend and partner in mischief in the middle of the night to escape the oppressive heat of your un-air conditioned dorm room at the end of a deep south August. The still air hung heavy with humidity and some kind of unvoiced anticipation as you both groped your way down the forested banks of the Oconee, finally reaching the water breathless and giggling. At your imperative he turned his back as you stripped off your clothing and plunged into the shallow water, and you ducked under and held your breath until he joined you. You resurfaced, gasping for air and laughing because you felt young, free, and deliriously happy. The two of you splashed about and, bit by bit, you began to realize that you were in love with him. An accidental brush of bare skin under water left you breathless and overwhelmed with joy because in his eyes, across that respectful distance he’d again placed between you, you saw that he loved you back. Months after that, you found yourself at the same river, crying as though you’d never stop as he made his way across another ocean and you stayed behind to reconfigure your heart with the pieces he added and the pieces he took away.
Gentle surf was the soundtrack as later you lay next to another boy on a beach—the same boy who’d already once left you feeling as if you’d be better off dead, but who all the same you loved so much you took him back. A waxing moon illuminated the still Florida waters as he confessed to you he’d marry you now if you’d have him, and you clasped him hard against you and choked back tears because you knew you couldn’t, no matter how much you cared about him. Shortly thereafter he left you again, this time for a west coast girl, and you put as much distance as you could between him and yourself, seeking solace in a south Pacific sea. By that deep azure water you wrote him letters you never mailed and then you plunged headlong into the present, submerging yourself completely in that sun-drenched life. Months later, after wandering solo up an entire coast, you emerged from the clear Australian surf and returned home whole again.
Later you found yourself speeding east without destination, blinded by tears and rage, your body wracked by infection and disgust. You stopped at a deserted winter’s shore and stumbled your way down to the sand, letting the bracing north Atlantic chill dry the tears from your face and the pounding sound of the icy surf drive the sounds of betrayal from your head. You returned to your home much later that day feeling purged—and liberated.
After finally giving up on trying to find someone to spread sunblock on your back, you learned to do it yourself and spent many a summer’s afternoon covered in sand in the happy company of your own thoughts. Quite unexpectedly, you were startled out of your quiet state of contentment by a blue-eyed stranger with a raucous laugh, and you soon found yourself searching for starfish on the Jersey shore, unable to stop smiling. The late afternoon’s lingering warmth and entanglements of bare, salty limbs left you feeling intoxicated, and the conversations that continued well after the sun slipped below the horizon gradually allowed you to let down your emotional wall and learn to trust again.
Now just a photograph of a slanted palm adjacent to turquoise water is enough to bring back an entire sensory memory. You can close your eyes and inhale once more the saline sea air, the smell of wet sand, the organic mustiness of drifting seaweed and other vegetation and natural debris. Your skin tingles with the sensation of a warm breeze drying salt water from your bare shoulders, the tickle of sand as it pushes between your toes, the feeling of the sun’s rays gradually turning you brown despite the sticky layers of sunblock you applied and reapplied. Your tongue passes over your lips to taste slightly bitter brine mingled with grit, and the sound of the gently crashing surf as it bubbles and ebbs around your ankles edges any other noise from inside your head and leaves you feeling silently peaceful. Your eyes drink in the vivid colors; the cerulean, emerald, and silver of the water, the clean white of the powder-fine sand, the brilliant azure of the sky, and the golden glow of all your surroundings imparted by a tropical sun. Your emotions range from overwhelming joy to absolute contentment, and you neither think of the past nor worry about the future; all that matters is that moment.
As your wandering mind returns to coastal Georgia and your spot on the floating dock, you sigh softly and roll over onto your stomach so that you can dangle an arm over the edge and touch the surface of the water. You run your fingers along the submerged edge of the dock and brush against the soft and slightly slimy squish of the colony of sea squirts that grows there. Coming home has been good for you; you finally feel rested and at ease after several long months of nearly continuous activity. You also, however, feel nearly ready to head back out into your now broader and more urban world. In this respect, you again feel yourself linked to the river; you are periodically drawn back toward home, but even though you may rest there awhile, you always flow back out toward the vastness of the ocean.
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