Beach

The beach house is as beautiful as ever. Somehow it seems more poignant and filled with memories now.

This place has always been a retreat for my family. A place where we come to unplug and do without the distractions of the world. Things are more basic and elemental here (as they are at the farmhouse). Warmth comes from the sky. Food comes from the ocean. Sun, surf, and wind feel good … but any of the three can scrape your skin and eyes raw. During the day, you read, write, and play in the sand. At night, you eat the most amazing seafood, pulled in that very day by the boats plying their trade up and down the coast. Migrating birds stop here. I once took a long walk to the end of the island and happened on a bald eagle with a fresh kill. Sea turtles lay their eggs in the sand, and the locals put up small fences around the nests to protect them from dogs. In the late summer, the whole island goes dark in the evenings, to give the little turtles hope of using the starlight to find their way to the ocean.

We first came to the island almost 30 years ago, when it was just three of us. I have pictures of the blonde, tousled child I was then, first with parents in a pickup truck, then with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends. I recall running back and forth to the tiny mini-golf / arcade, a handful of quarters at a time. This place was an anchor to me through puberty and young adulthood. I’ve never made casual, short term friends easily, but many of those playmates and chance acquaintances were out on this very beach.

Over the years, we stayed in motels, then rented a house, and finally purchased this one. redmed studied for her phase one boards here, justkidding_nr lived here in college. amnesiadust and I came out here at the end of high school to clear our heads. sacredangle has had his share of adventures here.

The house has survived hurricanes, including a couple of direct hits that knocked neighboring houses clear across the street. We’ve lost at least three ocean-facing decks … several sets of windows … and the basic structural elements have all been replaced at least once. I’ve seen it with the entire ceiling fallen in, and we simply re-built, re-plastered, and went on with life. In real terms, this house is a hole in the beach that we throw money into … but it’s been worth it time and again.

So now we’re here without my mom … she came here for the last time less than a month ago to install hurricane shutters. My dad and I wrestled the shutters open yesterday, and we’ll wrestle them closed today. Last night, we ate incredibly fresh fish and shrimp, drank wine, and talked for hours. (Then we watched Battlestar Galactica). Today we’ll drive back to VA.

The notes of sympathy are finally tapering off. We’re two and three layers out … old friends mentioning what happened to other old friends who then write sweet and thoughtful emails. I’ve told the story of what happened to enough people that it’s making its way through the network without me. By the way, I’m happy to tell the story to anyone who asks … but probably not in this spectacularly public a forum.

The brain fog is finally lifting as well … I finally feel halfway smart again, and when I sit down to do some technical task I’m able to do more than stare at the screen and wonder how the hell I ever made a living at this.

Unacceptable as it may seem, the world goes on. My load of sorrows is substantially heavier now, but remarkably enough, the load of regrets is mostly unchanged. When we talk about living without regret … living each day as if it might be the last … death is what that attitude is for, and it truly does help. She didn’t *want* to go by any means … but she was *ready* to go, and so the fact that it caught her by surprise isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.

This morning, I was finally able to look at the international news again. It’s hard to realize that even given the depth of my feelings … my load is still light. I’m not in Darfur. I’m not in Iraq. My family has resources that folks in Haiti can’t dream of, so who am I to grieve to excess? I have the spare time and flexibility to be with my family for over a month, working from home … albeit a different home.

In spite of those differences, the feeling of losing a parent is one that I share with every single human being lucky enough to live more than a few years. Grief, reflection, rebuilding … these are the ordinary and universally shared reactions. That feeling I had on the first day, on the plane ride to Baltimore, is still with me. I look at the other people around me in the stores, on the road, and I know that I’m connected to them by experiences deeper than we’ll ever talk about. Most people don’t realize that connection, and fewer still will ever speak of it out loud … but it’s there.

We share a common human heart … with slightly different perspectives to keep it interesting.