Last week, everyone I knew was afraid to say the word, even
though it was a propitious “First Day of S…” falling on the equinox and all. We
skirted around saying “spr…” and “s..” and “s..w”.
As Easter arrived, I had to admit that I was still a bit skeptical.
You see, the last chunks of s... have almost, but not quite, melted into the aqua
filter. The gargantuan four-foot pile
surrounding the A Frame and lining Old Wharf Road is no more.
On Head of Meadow beach in Truro, the Frances, a 3-masted barque
wrecked in 1872, made an appearance during the low tides this winter.
Ice floes
that washed in for weeks on the shores of Corn Hill and Duck Harbor beaches have
disappeared.
April is about the sounds - cars pulling back into driveways
empty since Thanksgiving weekend, rakes and saws; the general business of a seasonal
place getting ready to open.
As if lying in wait, gangs of wild turkeys burst out on
Route 6, causing a slow down in early morning traffic simultaneous to return of
robin red breasts, chickadees, woodpeckers heard throughout the morning and
into the twilight hours. Crocuses are cautiously making an appearance.
Officially, the weekend before spring break is when
everything really starts. At Mac's shack by the old pier, newly hired employees
are out sanding and re-staining the outdoor furniture. Restaurants along route
six have also shown signs of return.
Owners or day workers are our scrubbing the windows, re-grading the
driveways and getting fresh clam and oyster shells spread in the parking
lots.
The color of the ocean is an inexplicable blue, so different
from the turmoil of bottle green pummeling the shore and leaving behind bits of
debris, buoys ripped loose from lobster traps, old bottles of gatorade,
driftwood and piles of rocks.
March came in
like a lion,
and out like a lion this year; the lamb having been sacrificed for another
late season snowfall. Now that the s.. is out, somehow, the longest winter in
history doesn't feel like it was that bad, but more like an adventure rewarded
with plenty of snow days.
But March was a difficult month for me. It was
heavy and dark and l-o-n-g, then surprising me with daylight savings time before I
was ready for it. At long last, light began streaming in my windows, but only as
I was settling in for the night. It left me discombobulated.
I had a birthday
too. Getting older is not easy. So easy to type, right? I know it's a fact of life, and I have a
choice to do it gracefully, (and yes, I am entertaining some facial updates),
but I feel completely unprepared for the changes that are beginning to set in. I
didn't think I'd be so exhausted, emotional and worried about the broken hip I
didn’t get when I slipped on the ice in my driveway.
Just last month, my brother told me I should write a book
about being positive, and changing one’s life, and all I could think about was how
I couldn’t remember anything. Most days, I feel like I’m on that spinning ride
that keeps going faster and faster, the concentric forces preventing me from
getting off. Maybe it’s just the promise of spring that Jobim sings about in
the
Waters of March; the rush of
life, of being so close to nature out here in Wellfleet that the
slightest alteration has an affect on my being...from the change in late afternoon light to the collective joy in my Saturday morning yoga class when
we share news about hearing the peepers the previous evening or the sighting of athe
flock of Bohemian Waxwings in South Truro.
A stick, a stone, it's the
end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
it's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass, it is
life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death,
it's a trap, it's a gun
The oak when it blooms, a fox
in the brush
The knot in the wood, the
song of a thrush
The will of the wind, a
cliff, a fall
A scratch, a lump, it is
nothing at all
It's the wind blowing free,
it's the end of the slope
It's a beam, it's a void,
it's a hunch, it's a hope
And the river bank talks of
the waters of March
It's the end of the strain,
it's the joy in your heart
The foot, the ground, the
flesh and the bone
The beat of the road, a
slingshot's stone
A fish, a flash, a silvery
glow
A fight, a bet, the range of
a bow
The bed of the well, the end
of the line
The dismay in the face, it's
a loss, it's a find
A spear, a spike, a point, a
nail
A drip, a drop, the end of
the tale
A truckload of bricks in the
soft morning light
The sound of a shot in the
dead of the night
A mile, a must, a thrust, a
bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
it's a cold, it's the mumps
The plan of the house, the
body in bed
And the car that got stuck,
it's the mud, it's the mud
A float, a drift, a flight, a
wing
A hawk, a quail, the promise
of spring
And the river bank talks of
the waters of March
It's the promise of life,
it's the joy in your heart
A snake, a stick, it is John,
it is Joe
It's a thorn on your hand and
a cut in your toe
A point, a grain, a bee, a
bite
A blink, a buzzard, a sudden
stroke of night
A pass in the mountains, a
horse and a mule
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue
And the river bank talks of
the waters of March
It's the promise of life in
your heart, in your heart
A stick, a stone, the end of
the road
The rest of a stump, a
lonesome road
A sliver of glass, a life,
the sun
A knife, a death, the end of
the run
And the river bank talks of
the waters of March
It's the end of all strain,
it's the joy in your heart
Songwriter
ANTONIO CARLOS JOBIM
Then, this afternoon, on the eve of end October's full moon, exiting the yoga studio, my phone pinged and I received this heartbreakingly lovely poem from my friend David, whom I connected with by voice after too long... he on the Amtrak, me in my car.
