Tools of the trade.
Posts tagged peaks island.
My bare feet scrape against painted wood still damp from the morning’s storm. The rising tide seems to send the breeze to the back of my neck with purpose. Rising and falling, licking my neck and smelling of wetness. For a moment the drone of an engine drowns out the surf, then fades, forgotten. My coffee is hot, the morning still cold and Peak’s Island is putting on a private show for me.
it’s like that sometimes, life. the future you thought was stone begins to flake and crack, chasms form and reveal cool dark places that scare you but you touch. days later you’re still cold, the dark places have been doing their work, trying desperately to change you. they whisper, “it can’t be the same, you can’t be the same" and it’s tempting to listen. to hand it over to the darkness and feel sorry for yourself. self pity is an easy betrayal after all.
days later still you might be on a beach, the sun might be setting and instead of the darkness you might give into a cliche. you remember that your heroes are just that. heroes. people in your life who have time and time again been extraordinary and you smile and hope, no believe, that this time, this time it’s no different.
everyday we’re making waves, and we won’t be quiet, we won’t do that.
Maggie’s Father is the epitome of New England cool. Irish Catholic and constantly in Wayfarers, he talks with a drawl that, being from the south, I never can completely place. Pete and I have always gotten along well, he was a talented middle distance runner while in college and he takes pleasure in my being able to run. Whenever we meet one of his friends and I introduce myself he chimes in with, “this is the kid that ran the island in under 20 minutes.” I think it those five and a half minute miles I ran around the island make him forgive me my shorts.