It’s like this.
I came to Rockport more than once, but probably less than five times, as a child.
There is one specific memory I have of being here, with both my parents and my sister, so must have been younger than 8… maybe six or so.
I remember my father taking me out on the jetty, my mother cringing and begging us to be careful, certain I would be lost forever in a crashing sea determined to sop up small souls.
My parents argued when we came back from the rocks, which was always loud, and as chilled as the wind blowing down Bearskin Neck.
But my most vivid memory of that day was of spotting a small, wooden marionette horse, hanging in a shop window.
It was white.
Cheeks sprayed pink.
Feathery soft mane and tail.
Oh how I wanted that horse.
The shop keeper let me hold it, and I could make it clip clop on the brick floor. I could do it so well, I claimed, that it looked real.
I was crestfallen when I had to hand it back over to the very nice man, who hung it carefully between a marionette cat and cow.
The shop door jingled as we left, and it was cold outside.
And, what seemed like months later, I opened a box on Christmas morning and…
No other explanation.
I had to work to remember my parent’s argument that day, but not at all to remember the magic that started then, and showed itself to me months later.
Some folks would have given the tough stuff the front seat on their mental bus.
I need to give thanks to the powers that be, who organized this loopy brain of mine.
That’s what I was thinking yesterday, as I passed a certain shop window on a narrow road in Rockport that leads to the sea.
With a friend from half way across the world at my side, laughing and looking forward to a lunch with a couple of lobsters.
Thanks for readin’.
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