Ode to a Beach Lover
Dear Caryl,
It must have been low tide, since the waves had already begun to separate like the Red Sea, exposing a sandy path to Fox Island. Lounging in striped beach chairs, we dipped our toes in the gentle waves at Popham Beach. Our kids were busy making drizzle castles at the water’s edge, wet sand slipping through small fingers to build turrets adorned with gull feathers. Grace-filled moments that the universe occasionally offers up to us humans.
I remember your toenails were magenta, accentuating your tanned skin and black swimsuit. My freckled and pale self was so jealous. You were, my friend, a beach mom goddess. We were listening to one of your favorite artists, Sara Bareillis sing “In the arms of an angel,” a bittersweet melody that always brings me to tears. Then and now. Because you are gone.
***
The minute I walk onto my back porch this morning, I see a monarch, wings like stained glass, landing on a coneflower. And then, like a fickle lover, it flits among blossoms, gouging on nectar after a long journey from Mexico. I am sure it is you, consummate gardener, returning to enjoy my backyard of coneflowers and day lilies, Solomon’s seal (yet to bloom) and lavender.
On my fridge is a photo of us posing on a huge rock in my Maine garden, both of us in our early fifties. Me in my favorite chamois shirt and jeans, you in an elegant black beach shift. We are both smiling and you are leaning into me. Not sure who took the photo; there were no selfies back then.
Dear friend,
I am so sorry that…
You will miss your daughter Hannah’s wedding next summer.
That you will not have a chance to cradle your first grandchild.
That we will not be beach buddies this August, when you and Michael were coming for a long-awaited visit with me, the first in I -forget- exactly- how- many -years.
But I will always remember…
How you loved coastal Maine. We planned our excursions for late afternoons when the beach was nearly empty except for our kids chasing seagulls and a few die-hard sun worshippers. One August afternoon our reward for sticking on the beach during a storm (we took refuge in the bathrooms), was the miracle of a double rainbow. I have yet to see another one.
How you loved the clam chowder at Spinney’s, and fried dough served on Sunday morning at Percys General Store. Together we traipsed along the banks of the Kennebec looking for driftwood and shell beds. We picked raspberries before the birds ransacked our bushes at our cottage and found back to school bargains at Renny’s in Bath. (I still have the Renny’s shopping bag you sent me.)
How we watched the Atlantic churn after lunch at Mad Marthas (your favorite funky haunt) in advance of Hurricane Sandy.
How our families shared lobster dinners at our kitchen table, dipping sumptuous claw meat into mismatched china cups of melted butter.
How you weren’t afraid to be irreverent and speak your mind. No one needed to open your truth chakra. Over the past year, we anguished about the suffering and injustice generated by the cruel and power-hungry dictator in the White House. (By the way, I donated to the ACLU in your name. Thought you would approve.)
How you schooled me in Yiddish, teaching me the meanings of “mensch,” “mikvah” and “schlep,” which is how we got our mini caravan of beach bags, coolers, sand toys and sometimes whiny kids to the beach from the parking lot.
How we celebrated Mother’s Day by leaving our kids at home and going to see a movie together.
How after your husband Michael called to say you had passed, I was in shock. Like most people would be when hearing that their friend of nearly 30 years did not survive a heart attack. I walked mindlessly around my block, gazing skyward to see an almost full moon peek behind branches of my silver maple. Yet it felt like the world was already a darker place. It still does.
Traces of you are everywhere. I will never delete your voicemails- I could listen to” Hey, can’t talk tonight, we will connect soon,” a hundred times. Whenever I drive, I am using the RBG lacy collar keychain you gave me for one birthday. (I think I gave you an RBG kitchen towel.) And there are the bumper stickers, one of a Maine lobster and another of Popham Beach, which help me find my all-too-plain bronze Versa in a crowded lot.
***
“What will survive of us is love,” the poet Philip Larkin wrote. But in your case, dear friend, it will not only be your love, but the memory of your infectious laugh that kept us from going over the edge.
I will miss you. Always. Especially when I am on a beach listening to the waves and Sara Bareilles. I hope you are listening to her now.
Love,
Marcy