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Photographs from the 1970s have a
telltale tint to them as though every camera wore polaroid sunglasses.
Everything is somewhat fuzzy; just enough to clear complexions and soften
things around the edges. Each photo has character and none are perfect. The expense
of film didn't give people the luxury of taking ten photos, only to choose one
at the end in which everyone is looking, open-eyed and smiling, or their hair
is falling exactly the right way despite the blustering winds. On a bright and
clear day, there is often a glare creeping in at the corner as if the sun is
trying to say hello and be remembered alongside our loved ones.
This is how I imagine my aunt
sitting on "Karyn Rock" forty years ago; with the trees a little too vibrant of
a green and the ocean duller than in real life. When I come to sit on this rock
I wonder if the slick tadpoles from the pond it overlooks that I scoop up in my
hands, butting against each other like the atoms of a solid, are the great x 105
grandchildren of those she may have snatched from under the safety of the murky
water too, or maybe the tides came too high then and washed them all out to sea
before they had a chance to grow.
I
have walked, or rather leaped, along this bouldery beach in front of my house
for as long as I can remember, and over the years my family has named and
claimed rocks. Some have been forgotten, but the best have remained. We had
picnics on "Couch and Chair Rocks," timing it just right so that the water
wouldn't flood our towels and soil our sandwiches, and debated if this was
"Avalanche Rock" or if it was really "Volcano Rock" and the speckled
mountain-like boulder was the one five feet to the left. The destination,
though, has always been Aunt Karyn's rock, the most prominent one directly in line
with our house. When I was younger it took a jumping start to scale this
mountainous piece of granite, but now I can take two steps and be at the
summit. When I look down from its peak, the vibrant violet irises lick the warm
summer breeze as they return my gaze and the barnacles and snails hunker in the
shade on the bellies of the rocks below, waiting for the tide to bring them
their next meal. On the other side, the waves batter against the glistening
pebbles of low tide, and driftwood floats aimlessly until finally being snagged
against some seaweed to a final resting place. As I sit down, hugging my knees
to my chest, there is an alder sprout trying to touch the sky by reaching from
a crevasse, but it taps my heel instead. Its roots will not have room to make a
sturdy base for a tree, but each year the minuscule shrub spreads, gaining land
little by little.
I
close my eyes and as I feel the sun kindle against my skin, I picture myself
under the same polaroid filter as my aunt. My photo has a little less snow on
the peaks, more trees to the right, and a girl with bigger hair, but I wonder,
all the same, who will see it in forty years and venture to sit here again.
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