There is a cove, not more than a four minute walk from my father’s old house, that holds memories better than my leaky mind does.
It is a small cove; the spines of rock that encase it no more than a hundred yards from each other. At low tide, I can take maybe thirty steps before my sneakers are awash in the Gulf of Maine. I always have to be careful where I step. The beach is covered in fat, smooth, speckled stones that shade from a seagull grey to a wet black as one gets closer to the sea. Flotsam and jetsam are like tourists that come and go with the tides. A crab's crusted shell, a oyster's open, empty home, and innumerate strands of seaweed stuck in between, holding on desperately as though they cannot stand the thought of their vacation ending. I do not mind them (synonym for vacationing) here, for this cove is blissfully bereft of the other, human tourists that stick to this beach town. It is true, technically, that this cove belongs to the rich Bostonian who owns the mansion resting on the cliff behind it. I only hope that he is a generous man and does not mind the moments that I make there.
The sound, which can be faintly heard from my father's house, is deafening here. The waves crash and boom against the sharp slope, but it is not their relentless invasion that creates the cacophony. It is their inevitable retreat. As each wave reaches its limit and begins to return to the sea, it refuses to leave without plunder. Hundreds of smooth stones scramble and scrabble over one another as the water pulls them along, like a great instrument made of a million miniature landslides. It is a sound that is at once both uniform and complex. Tumultuous and pure. Overwhelming… and soothing.
The first time I ever visited the cove, that orchestra could not play loud enough for me. The tide was high that day, the storm surge pushing the waves beyond the high water mark and on to the last few steps where I stood, watching the ocean reflect and distort the steely sky above. With the pounding surf pummeling the shore, the roar was almost continuous. Almost. It drowned out the thoughts I didn’t want to think, but in every brief pause between the swells, there was a moment of silence that my brain desperately filled. As the oldest of siblings, I would not permit myself to burden my brother and sisters with my own feelings. Especially not then, two days after we had moved into our parents new, separate houses. I had no goddamn clue what to say to them, no idea how I could make this betrayal better. So if I couldn’t make it better, there was no way I would burden them further with my own pain. So I came here. If a person could not soothe me with words, then the ocean would soothe me with volume. Create comfort from the cold fact that its existence would far outlast all our troubles.
I whispered my thanks to the wind.
The cove was something that quickly became near and dear to me, so I suppose it’s no surprise that I brought others there with me. Not just any others, though; those that were already close to me… and those that I wanted closer. I still remember the way the moonlight shone off of Kaitlyn’s eyes the first time I brought her (brought anyone) there. The ocean was calm, contentedly lapping at the shore. We climbed the rocks together, her hand gripping mine and mine gripping hers, as I lead her up uneven steps, my own steps sure-footed as they followed this strange, fluttery confidence in my chest that I could only describe as the passion of youth. The small ledge we found to sit on was just a little too small, and our thighs pressed up against one another. Our lips met, the distant lighthouse beamed, and the flash was all that bore witness to the first true kiss. Every eleven seconds the light would come ‘round again; I quickly lost count.
Time is an unwelcome visitor in memories of joy.
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