Old Harbors

Every year I return to the town I grew up in, a place of pain, but a place of familiarity, beauty, and yes, wonderful memories.
I can't not come back, to the harbor, to the ocean, to the channel full of trees, to the grassy white dunes where I played as a child.
This spit of beach was a safe haven, a place to escape from fear and sadness. The wind took away the pall on my shoulders,
The salty sea cleansed my soul for awhile.
I know the familiar roads, where fun is free, and fresh clams are served.
I return to the places I learned to swim and my children paddle about in the fresh water, happy not to worry about crabs pinching their feet.
We gather wampum, and stones, and beach heather, and fill our car with sand that will never quite leave.
This place is home, it is my escape, where the blue hydrangeas line weathered fences and most nights are cool.
I will return, and return, and sigh at the burgeoning compound but smile as I watch the boats sail out to sea.