On the first full day of summer the sun is up
the sky as far as it will get and now it will
head south to warm the Antipodes, where today
it rains and gales blow up from the Antarctic.
Here it is summer already, the lawn mowed, garden
weeded and nostalgia for summers past makes her
way into this place. The years of WWII bunkers
on South Beach and the tar coating our feet from
the boats out there and green-eyed Billy, now gone to
fat and trouble, trying to pull me through his bedroom
window. Now, Lily Briscoe paints the lighthouse again,
and my cousins across the yard. And the others, all
of them. Grown middle-aged... or dead or sick and
their children, for Christ’s sake, all grown up.
We were something. The great bonfire on the beach
and sex in the dunes with someone I would
never see or taste again, and hanging on each
other before the fire. The other years: crossing
the Tyrrhenian Sea in a summer storm, fearing
the boat will sink because they have, they do.
Below decks everyone pukes and prays to Dio,
Deo, Allah, so I go above and lash my sleeping
bag to the deck rail and wedged between
the bulkhead and two steel rods, I sleep. Nothing
between me and the wild ocean but a clothesline
rope. And awake as we chug into Brindisi, all
of us repeating grazie, grazie as we disembark to live
another summer. Now, all these years on, we
see another summer coming, relentless in
its blooms and breeze and thunder rolling up
the valley and apple blossoms strewn like snow
flakes on the ground.
|From The Geographic Cure by Ellen Dudley. Copyright © 2007 by Ellen Dudley. Reprinted with permission of Four Way Books.|