Lifetimes Unfold on Scarborough's Sands
During that time, we adopted a baby girl from China. Annabelle brought us joy again after so much pain. I found myself laughing more. I felt my broken heart start to mend, its cracks and fissures deep.
And so another summer came. On my desk, I had maps and guidebooks and brochures for Chile and Argentina. But something in me knew it was time to stay home again. “What if we rented a beach house this summer?” I asked Lorne. He agreed that was a fine idea.
But the house we rented — a bungalow, just a worn path through deep-pink roses from the beach — was far from Scarborough, an hour in the opposite direction. I’m a woman who loves the beach. But I’m not ready for that beach, where I grew up and learned so much about love and life and friendship and family. The sand there has too many footprints on it. For now, I seek a different beach, one without impression or memory.
At Scarborough, I can still see the skinny little girl I was, chasing her cousins along the edge of the water. I can see my teenage self, lying beside her best friend, trying to imagine what the night might bring, bursting with hope. And there I am, wanting that boy to lean over and kiss me, getting that kiss and many more, believing surely there have never been kisses like these.
And not too many years later, one marriage behind me, the promise of a new one ahead, I sit with my father and drink coffee, the smell of baking pies filling the air. I can see myself with my own children, two towheads walking hand in hand toward some unseeable future. In these visions, no one dies, the girl always wins the boy’s heart, kisses never end, the sun is always shining, the sand is hot, the beach is full, and summer, glorious summer, never ends.
In July, Ann Hood talks about her latest work: YankeeMagazine.com/10Things