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Life on Matinicus Island

“I don’t know what to think anymore. When Charlie and I were coming up, it was a different time. A gentler time, I guess you’d say. You had to fight then, too, but it seems like the rules were more moral. Does that make any sense? Now, with all that’s happened–I don’t know. It just seems like right and wrong mean different things today.”

All that was many months ago. The little photo I bought that day, of the rainbow over the harbor, hangs now over my desk at home. It seems almost of a different world.

It’s hard to account for why exactly. It’s more, I think, than the perfect calm of the water, or the hazy, purplish light that must have followed the rain that day. In the photo, the harbor boats seem smaller, and humbler, than I remember. They float at their moorings comfortably apart, not much more than a dozen of them, gentle neighbors under an early-evening sky. I can’t make out their engines, but I feel certain they were smaller, too–and slower, built for a lazier, more generous time.

On Matinicus Island, until that July morning two years ago, it was still that time. A fight was still just a fight, was still among family, could still be atoned for. The world across the water–“America”–had not yet quite arrived.
Now, I fear, it has.

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