We were insular, the six of us that were born so far. Sure, had friends, but hung out all together, solemnly, or crazed, racing through the woods in the darkness.
Except when just my older brother and I were 15 and 17, and I got to go out with him, and leave all the little ones behind, because it was allowed, and we picked up some friends with the family boat station wagon, and all hung out in the tiny town park, which actually was a log nailed between two tall Pines, with swings hung from it.
So we smoked and laughed and sat on cushioned fragrant needles, til the mosquitoes drove us off, drove us down to the river not too far from there, where we’d shut off the car lights and coast down the rooted dirt driveway of various neighbors with their nice homes leaning up against the riversides, and we’d slide from the car, pulling off t shirts and things, til , laughing, snorting, stumbling, we’d reach the thick sand of riverbank with our bare feet sinking in slowly, and the cold wet hemming in our toes.
We’d step quietly into the waters, and immerse ourselves up to our noses, til we laughed and sputtered and choked, and waiting for that one magic moment, when the tide turned, some of us too toasted to remember what it was that was so compelling about coming at this time, til we tasted the powerful salt tart on our tongues, and there- the tide had turned, the ocean was seeping up into the lands all around us, in the darkness, as we stood by each other,pulled along by the tide.
