laughter, hot weather, things lost on the beach.
In summer, I sleep with my windows open. Night holds my body in its mouth.
In this second darkness, my desire flings itself upon a world of closed eyes.
Then dreams break against the rocks of morning.
Summer out here is busy with people doing nothing. And the beaches are crowded—except very early, when it’s mostly dogs and people who are alone.
I’ve been going to East Hampton Beach Club since I was a girl. I know my way around without needing anyone to guide me. It’s also where I learned to swim.
Sometimes old people sit on the benches in front of the restaurant facing the sea. They shuffle in their seats as I pass.
M y eccentric grandfather John is ninety-something. He was born on Long Island but lives in a mansion in England. My grandmother Harriet died a few years ago. He designed their gravestone with a poem:
Here lie:
Harriet and John Bray
H.B. Born 1920, Connecticut, U.S.A.
Died 2003, East Sussex
J.B. Born 1923, Long Island, U.S.A.
Died 20—, East Sussex
When days are darkest, the earth enshrines
the seed of summer’s birth.
The Spirit of man is a light that shines
deep in the darkness of earth.
Grandpa John is very old now. He says his only wish is to see me happy. After the war he became a millionaire. He also met Charlie Chaplin.
B etween May and September, the supermarket in East Hampton smells like sunscreen, and it’s hard to find a parking spot. Someone in Bridgehampton once offered my father a hundred dollars for his space as he was filling the meter. My father said he’d give it to him for a kiss. My mother said he should have taken the hundred dollars.
People stay up late too, and from my bed on a Saturday night, I hear the steady rush of cars between East Hampton and Montauk.
Where are people going?
I wonder what they hope will happen and what they are afraid of?
For me it’s the same thing and has to do with being loved.
I t’s very cold here now.
February is quiet except for the wind, which rushes through hollows in the roof. Everything has a voice. Our house was once a flock of trees in the wilderness.
On Saturday I sleep later than my parents.
Sometimes I wake up and lie still enough to hear a petal drop from the vase of flowers. Sometimes I lie awake and wish there was someone to hear my falling. In the safety of my bed, on a tightrope between waking and dreaming, my fantasies feel so real—only steps away—around a corner that never ends.
My father opens the curtains slowly to unveil the day. Every day is a masterpiece, even if it crushes you. Light spills across my face. I blink but see nothing.
W e had more snow overnight. This morning I went with my father to Riverhead for salt and a new shovel. He likes it when I ride with him. We wear hats and gloves. Saturday has always felt hopeful. He treats me like a girl sometimes. I used to hate it when I was in high school, but now I don’t mind. He didn’t mention my date tonight, but I could tell he was thinking about it. He asked if I needed anything from the outlets.
I have a job in Manhattan and get home at midnight on Fridays when the museum where I work is open late. In summer, the bus is packed, but I’ve been riding the Jitney for so long I always get a seat. The drivers know me. My mother bakes cookies for them. I’ve always wondered if they eat them while they’re driving. Sometimes when I get off, I’m tempted to sweep the driver’s seat with my hand for crumbs.
W hen we got home from Riverhead, my father poured salt on the steps. I listened as pellets hit the ice. I imagined a head opening and thoughts falling out. Then my father stopped pouring and told me not to use my separate entrance until he’s replaced a few of the steps. The truth is that I hardly use it anyway.
When the bag of salt was empty, we went inside. I made two cups of instant coffee. Then we sat at the kitchen table without taking our coats off.
W hen my mother came
In summer, I sleep with my windows open. Night holds my body in its mouth.
In this second darkness, my desire flings itself upon a world of closed eyes.
Then dreams break against the rocks of morning.
Summer out here is busy with people doing nothing. And the beaches are crowded—except very early, when it’s mostly dogs and people who are alone.
I’ve been going to East Hampton Beach Club since I was a girl. I know my way around without needing anyone to guide me. It’s also where I learned to swim.
Sometimes old people sit on the benches in front of the restaurant facing the sea. They shuffle in their seats as I pass.
M y eccentric grandfather John is ninety-something. He was born on Long Island but lives in a mansion in England. My grandmother Harriet died a few years ago. He designed their gravestone with a poem:
Here lie:
Harriet and John Bray
H.B. Born 1920, Connecticut, U.S.A.
Died 2003, East Sussex
J.B. Born 1923, Long Island, U.S.A.
Died 20—, East Sussex
When days are darkest, the earth enshrines
the seed of summer’s birth.
The Spirit of man is a light that shines
deep in the darkness of earth.
Grandpa John is very old now. He says his only wish is to see me happy. After the war he became a millionaire. He also met Charlie Chaplin.
B etween May and September, the supermarket in East Hampton smells like sunscreen, and it’s hard to find a parking spot. Someone in Bridgehampton once offered my father a hundred dollars for his space as he was filling the meter. My father said he’d give it to him for a kiss. My mother said he should have taken the hundred dollars.
People stay up late too, and from my bed on a Saturday night, I hear the steady rush of cars between East Hampton and Montauk.
Where are people going?
I wonder what they hope will happen and what they are afraid of?
For me it’s the same thing and has to do with being loved.
I t’s very cold here now.
February is quiet except for the wind, which rushes through hollows in the roof. Everything has a voice. Our house was once a flock of trees in the wilderness.
On Saturday I sleep later than my parents.
Sometimes I wake up and lie still enough to hear a petal drop from the vase of flowers. Sometimes I lie awake and wish there was someone to hear my falling. In the safety of my bed, on a tightrope between waking and dreaming, my fantasies feel so real—only steps away—around a corner that never ends.
My father opens the curtains slowly to unveil the day. Every day is a masterpiece, even if it crushes you. Light spills across my face. I blink but see nothing.
W e had more snow overnight. This morning I went with my father to Riverhead for salt and a new shovel. He likes it when I ride with him. We wear hats and gloves. Saturday has always felt hopeful. He treats me like a girl sometimes. I used to hate it when I was in high school, but now I don’t mind. He didn’t mention my date tonight, but I could tell he was thinking about it. He asked if I needed anything from the outlets.
I have a job in Manhattan and get home at midnight on Fridays when the museum where I work is open late. In summer, the bus is packed, but I’ve been riding the Jitney for so long I always get a seat. The drivers know me. My mother bakes cookies for them. I’ve always wondered if they eat them while they’re driving. Sometimes when I get off, I’m tempted to sweep the driver’s seat with my hand for crumbs.
W hen we got home from Riverhead, my father poured salt on the steps. I listened as pellets hit the ice. I imagined a head opening and thoughts falling out. Then my father stopped pouring and told me not to use my separate entrance until he’s replaced a few of the steps. The truth is that I hardly use it anyway.
When the bag of salt was empty, we went inside. I made two cups of instant coffee. Then we sat at the kitchen table without taking our coats off.
W hen my mother came
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