The Vineyard, to me

7/17/14

I think it was Judy

who started the tradition of not looking back.

It's too hard, the story goes. When you’re walking off, just walk off. You’ll be back next year.

I cried as I drove Middle Road to Beetlebung

my mind and muscles steeped with memories

stronger than my mom’s morning tea.

The home-i-ness of a home that isn’t enclosed by walls

that’s more permanent than any man-made structure 

that’s about the way the hills roll, or the signs are painted

not just the house we happen to be renting.

I don't mind the obvious changes - irksome as the now-bad pizza is - it's the ones that are slow over time that get me. 

Like a snail you can't tell is moving

until you see a small trail of slime along the ground.

The rock that was once our endless playground has been eroded so much so

it finally looks like the moated castle I often believed it could be.

The waves seem small now, and surf rough

I can't tell if the tide has actually shifted 

or if my memories of afternoon-long body surfing fests

are just a 9-year-old's interpretation of a couple full-mooned ocean swells.

Cherries and chips, pretzels and dried mango, warm tap water with an occasional treat of cooler-ed seltzer from friends far more prepared than I – the snacks to sustain any good beach afternoon.

I’m not sure what “the witching hour” means

(apologies if its racist or otherwise offensively derived)

but I swear the phrase was created to describe Lucy Vincent at dusk

like Hocus Pocus, our favorite movie one year --

touted as spooky craft, but really just the suspense

of finding one’s place

the magic of knowing you’ve got people.

Anyways,

at LVB its hardly just the sky, the sun still glaring but dulling in its heat

it’s the atmosphere of a deserted desert

prideful as the ones who persevered, patiently waiting for this coveted time,

who have too much fun with each other to care that the gate might lock us in.

By the time we leave, the once-full parking lot is a dusty ghost town,

our few remaining cars awkwardly peppered up the slope.

We wave arms out open windows as we peel off towards our own homes.

We have chance meetings on the sandy wooden porch of our favorite overpriced store,

drop by unannounced to borrow sunscreen,

coordinate dinners and consult on medical advice

like we were cousins in some big extended family busting the seams of a small town.

The difference is, for many years we didn’t have a picture of each other's lives outside of this tiny island – 50 weeks would spin by with nary a phone call.

And yet somehow year after year we’d settle back in without skipping a beat, as if a colorful autumn, harsh winter, or rainy spring hadn’t intervened along the way.

I’m thankful to say the passing of time has brought so many threads of our lives together, even the bad ones –

weddings, birthdays, cancers,

bat mitzvahs, interstate moves, career changes,

couch-crashing, midyear texts, impromptu invites to broadway plays --

our crew has broken the seal of summer lovin’; at some point when I wasn’t looking we crossed over from pals to kin.

Even Barrel now shows up on my gchat list.

I see the age on us all

the older adults 

- I call them that because I am an adult too, though still relatively so -

have settled into themselves 

are easier, somehow.

Grudges have ebbed and wounds been stitched (though scars remain). They've seen a lot of life and survived.

What's left is more giggles, 

softened skin alongside softened hearts

small bellies where tautness once held stiff

eyes melted into crows feet

like branding from the sunshine of so many beach days.

We have grown older, too

more and more of the seed of the people we each always have been

remarkably parallel though such distinct characters.

It was our un-diapered bottoms we all have to thank for this.

Some parents become grandparents

more generations distinguishing the passing of time  

napping new babes under the same umbrellaed shade. 

Some parents become more like friends: 

what’s 30 years when you’ve lived almost that long or longer?

We rub elbows like peers, though I take comfort in knowing that

somewhere in each of us

you’re always still mommas and papas and I’m always still the kid.

I just peeked out my airplane window

one of a dozen passengers patiently awaiting a stalled takeoff

and the sunset takes my breath away.

I’ve seen hundreds on this island - can conjure the smell of Menemsha in a snap, the view from the Gay Head cliffs

the sound of applause for the cycle of another day’s completion.