“You can’t just talk it away.”
“I’m not trying to talk anything away. I’m simply existing, attempting to—”
It seemed a futile endeavor to revisit places once filled with joy, as if the location itself held any significance. Yet, she mused, this notion of returning was all we truly possess; perhaps it could even be likened to faith. However, she felt unworthy of holding onto faith anymore—yet here she was, pretending. Pretending was her only shield against the haunting memories. So there they were. When you anticipate a significant shift and it never materializes, and you revert to your former self, what else is there but to put on a façade?
“The beach?” he asked. “What about the little beach with the broken chairs?”
“Yes.”
They walked in silence for three blocks to the shore, and she felt a wave of relief upon discovering the chairs had vanished. They settled on the grass as he began discussing real estate, claiming it always boiled down to that. “They’ll ruin this place too,” he lamented, decrying the wealthy as looters! His outrage was as sincere as his yearning for the wealth that perpetually eluded him, despite his efforts. He made no attempt to hide this contradiction. She admired his blatant hypocrisy. To despise what you desire seemed wholly natural to her. Now he was blaming the absence of the chairs on the affluent, who were always trying to enhance things that didn’t require improvement, thus spoiling everything they touched.
For her part, even though she didn’t respond or truly listen, the loss of the chairs represented a shift from the last visit, and she appreciated that at least they had vanished, whether due to the greedy or not.
“It would be nice to break some new chairs and leave them here.”
She gazed at the water, the sailboats bobbing gently, and at the object resembling a floating doghouse. At least that was still present. She nearly pointed it out but feared that acknowledging it might cause it to disappear or change. An old boat with a shingled roof was moored in the bay beside the sailboats. It was irrational—she felt thankful that the chairs were gone while simultaneously relieved that the doghouse boat remained. But that was just how it was. Of course, there was still time. The odds were against them, but not overwhelmingly so, and thus there was still hope. This sort of occurrence happened every hour of every day. It had even happened to her once in her mid-thirties, and she had felt a sense of relief then. There had been no sorrow whatsoever. Grief, she thought, was situational, much like everything else. Location, location, location, she could hear him saying, except now he was on to dinner plans. Part of her wished he would notice the doghouse boat on his own, while another part hoped he wouldn’t. Was this her dilemma? A chronic conflict of desires? Yes, there was still time, but can one not mourn what could have been, what this visit failed to be? There was something so ruthless about optimism. The damp grass seeped through her sundress. Later, at the small hotel next to the yacht club, they would undress, and the intimacy would provide a welcome distraction. She had always found hotel sex enjoyable, as the sheets didn’t matter. She always left a generous tip on the nightstand. Now it also allowed her to express her frustration with him—yes—his constant, unending stream of chatter—and with God too, an entity she hadn’t considered much until now. Now she almost believed. A great observer in the sky monitoring your every action made sense. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. He, too, seemed indecisive. This empty vessel.
Later, she would moan loudly enough to startle the innkeepers.
“You’re not feeling like fish?” he asked. “Why not? Last time—” The boats bobbed, and the land cradled the bay like a crooked arm.
This piece was originally published on September 28, 2014.
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In summary, this narrative reflects on the complexities of returning to places filled with memories and confronting the contradictions in desires and beliefs. It captures the essence of longing, loss, and the human experience in a moment of quiet introspection.
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