Gooches

Her daughter runs ahead and is immediately engulfed within the crowds of people silhouetted by firelight along the beach. There must be hundreds of people gathered at dusk for the show, sitting perched along the beach wall, naked feet, flip-flops clinging for life to sandy toes or dropped, discarded below them in the sand. Others are gathered in chairs and blankets along the beach in gaggles of tan and ruddy exuberance. Children of all ages are running everywhere; shadowy figures squealing and darting to and fro, many run recklessly with sparklers to illuminate their way.  She knows without having to look that her husband is nervous about someone losing an eye or combusting into flames.

The excitement is palpable and she detects and appreciates the sulfurous clouds of smoke from the sparklers reflecting the firelight and the atmosphere it adds to the beauty of the beach at night. There is just enough of a cool wind to keep the state birds at bay and she spies a good spot just big enough to lay out their spread and sit and wait for the fireworks. She scans the crowds to try and pinpoint where Frida has gone—pushing hair from her face she assesses the outlines of all of the small dancing shapes and zeros in on one dancing along the perimeter of a group of older girls—enjoying herself while looking to the elders to inform her of what is next on the horizon.  She hopes that her daughter is not feeling like an outcast. She is so adorable in her blossoming young body and her feral beach hair. Please don’t let her get hurt by anyone. Ever.

She waves and Frida nods with a tilt of the head but chooses not to wave back; she is enforcing her independence but still being polite and acknowledging her. Pointing to their blanket, she turns and sits down and starts unpacking; wine, sparklers, sweatshirts. She slips off her flip-flops and pulls on an overly large sweatshirt and settles into the evening.

'She needs bug spray. She is going to be eaten alive.' He is stressed already. Please relax and sit down. In an attempt to appear placating she assures him that she’ll administer a healthy dose of pesticide once Frida returns. Please relax. Beach. Wine. Smile. She pantomimes a smile, in case he has forgotten the mechanics behind the process.

Looking up the beach she follows the dark stretch of land jutting out to a point where it meets the glistening inkblot of the sea, the jetty extending out from the dunes, clogged with wild roses and ocean detritus; driftwood, broken lobster traps, seaweed dried into clots of fermented stink drape the rocks. Small pinpoints of light from houses across the port blink like fireflies trapped in a jar. She smiles.

This place, this beach is a crossroads of sorts for her. It occupies a crucial place in her memories, like a temporal gathering place; a church, where all ages of her self reconnect, remind and inform. Turning back to watch her daughter frolicking she can almost see a shadow of herself there too, scampering around and dancing right behind her daughter, her childhood folding forward to overlap the present, two generations and multiple times meeting at one point; this beach.

She had her first sexual experience right over there, in those dunes. He was older and more experienced, one of many tan and athletic sons from a wealthy family from down Bayberry street. He will forever be nameless and remembered as something of a dullard, but the dunes will always house the spirits of the clumsy figures, intertwined. He had coached her and she had acquiesced, feeling the excitement but also keenly aware that he was nothing but an item on a list in the process of being crossed off. The sandy groping and grappling had been a new and heady introduction to the beach; from child to teen in one night; she could now look at the wild and familiar landscape through different eyes.

'I’m going to go find her.' She is right there. 'I don’t want her getting lost.' What about you? Here. Take these sparklers. 'Ha-ha.'

Checking her watch and then the sky—still a ways to go. There is something about the light that triggers another memory—or a feeling of a memory. Of evenings hanging out around the bugzapper with the other kids, bikes abandoned against trees, hoods up and listening to REO Speedwagon on the transistor tied to a tree branch. The light cast from the small fire danced warm on knowing faces intermittently flashed with a terse ZAP of blue white light, the moths circling helplessly above the flames, beautifully trapped in an inevitable swirl of smoke and light, helpless to prevent extinguishment and locked in an atmospheric beauty and her face, upturned, couldn’t help but think it was the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed.

Again folding forward there were fireworks that summer, too; a hug from behind and a box produced with a ring. She had known, could see the box jutting out from the back of his sweatshirt, wedged down into the back of his shorts. Not wanting to spoil the secret and the wonderful tension she had feigned surprise and yet still was surprised. Right over there.

Sipping her wine she sees Dominik leaning over Frida, his body still and serious as he helps his jittery daughter light a sparkler. When it sparks she begins moving fast, like electrons bouncing around inside an atom—atomic! —while he stands close, anchoring her to reality. He is a really good father. Their daughter will teach him to be even better.

Looking past them she sees two figures walking side by side down along the water. It is low tide and they are far away. They walk silently, equidistant and parallel at all times. They are both barefoot, her legs are bare and she allows the water to run up and soak the edge of her skirt. Squinting, she sees that they are both holding something in front of them; if they speak she cannot see their mouths moving. Watching, she feels a tugging, a pulling sensation, of needing to be closer to them, or to be a part of them. She rises to walk slowly down towards the water, hesitant to be so voyeuristic but unable to stem the overwhelming sense that this couple is familiar, familial.

As she draws nearer she slows down her pace, pretends to wet her feet as she wraps her arms around herself. It is dark now but the two seem to not be effected. They have stopped walking and turn to face each other, at arms length their feet sink firmly into the wet sand, planted together and rooted to the beach.

The girl is shuffling through cards, seeming to read each one as she reorganizes them in her hands. Without pause she sees that this girl is she. Younger, less encumbered; Dominik has hair and his face is open, unlined and looks infinitely approachable. Swiftly turning her gaze back up the beach she confirms placement of her husband and daughter, still playing their parts and dancing their dance.

The couple solemnly looks at each other and without prompting he takes a card from the pile he is holding and hands her one. She bends her neck to read what is written there.

I’m sorry that I took you for granted.

The girl cocks her head sideways, assessing him. Her face is neutral. He looks young and uncomplicated—her heart expands fractionally at this poignant memory of a person she has misplaced.

The girl takes a card from the top of her pile and hands it to him.

I apologize for being selfish.

He allows only a second to pass before he hands her the next card—they are allowing less reaction time now, only holding the silent conversation and telling each other what needs to be said.

I wish I had tried harder to understand you.

And in return—

Thank you for all of the little things I didn’t pay attention to.

And—

Thank you for trying.

I should have hugged you when you were grieving but I didn’t know how.

I shouldn’t have had so many expectations.

I should have lived up to your expectations.

I wish I had been more honest with you.

I wish you had been more honest with yourself.

She stood watching the couple in the perpetual conversation; locked in the seemingly endless reconciliation. She cried for them, and for herself and her family, at what they had lost and she wished that this young couple could reach out and gather them all into this moment where they could all silently emote and converse and emerge whole and themselves again.

Running back up the beach, she flops down onto the blanket and dries her yes. Dominik appears before her and sits next to her, planting a small kiss on her cheek while Frida runs, jumps and lands heavily in a lap growing too small for her. She fills the void.

The thunderous clamor of the fireworks begins followed by the sublime echo—birds screech off into the night for safety. The crowd collectively oooh and ahhs and she cranes her neck, looking up into the bright projections of light and the swirls of sulfurous clouds descending, as bits and pieces of paper flit and fly like moths, swept up in a current of memory, ash and hope. Hugging her daughter, feeling for her husband's hand, she can’t help but think it is the most beautiful thing she has ever witnessed.