Apart

With naïve excitement, I drove to Cape Cod to visit my friend Brendan. I only wanted to give him a final farewell before we both left for college, for who knew when we would see each other again? I could have never expected what I found there, in those balmy beaches and sun-soaked cottages: myself. I saw into the past and saw a child ignorant of the future, but still anxious over it. Memories lapped like waves on my present, an island sinking bit by bit beneath the tide. How could I have known when I was so preoccupied with my future that only the past could guide me?

I drove down with my friend Nate, who had just returned from a month-long visit to see his family in Trinidad. I hadn’t seen him for almost a year; he was busy with college and I with high school. When I picked him up, I stammered out some benign small talk, fearing that we would struggle to connect after so long a separation. When he cut through my polite chatter, I was relieved to find him the same boisterous, ribald, thoughtful friend I remembered, and I smiled at the subtle pleasure of a memory confirmed. We talked of where we planned to go in the next few years—to college, to med school, to work—but despite this, the landscapes we passed pulled me inextricably into the past.

My family sunbathed at these beaches and swam in these waters. We ate chowder and cod at these restaurants. We drove aimlessly down these roads, like Nate and I now, just because they were beautiful. When I arrived at Brendan’s house, we tried to plan our weekend, but my thoughts circled ceaselessly back to my family’s visits and to the museums, carnivals, and ice cream shops my grandparents showed me when I was little. It was Nate who suggested visiting their old home.

My grandmother passed when I was in middle school. My grandfather followed her one year later. After decades of marriage, their union was indestructible, and my family emulated their devotion as if they embodied the highest ideal of love, which, I suppose, they did. Every time my family visited Cape Cod, it was to see them, eat with them, speak with them, and learn how to return the love they poured over us. Their loss affected me deeply. It marked my first encounter with death, the first time I learned what it meant for somebody to be truly, totally gone. After my grandfather’s death, I slowly and somewhat reluctantly came to realize that their deaths meant much more than simply the end of two lives. It meant the end of my family’s trips to the Cape, the end of my childhood, and the end of what might be called the golden days of my family.

The day before Nate and I left Cape Cod, I decided to take up Nate’s suggestion and see my grandparents’ home again. As we drove, I felt breathless, bewildered, and baffled as this old, familiar place returned to my present. We drew nearer and nearer, old landmarks passing by, Nate listening compassionately as I remarked each one: the golf course, the verdant groves and gardens, and at last, the millstone marking my grandparents’ neighborhood. I parked on the street in front of their home. Nate sat patiently and left me to my thoughts.

The house was not what I remembered. The new tenants had put a garden out front and erected a fence to enclose the yard, no doubt upping the value of the old, single-story, but still endearing little house. But for me, these minor renovations vanished, for I saw my memories replaying themselves, years of family celebrations condensed into a few nostalgic moments. I journeyed back to vacations and holidays and get-togethers. I remembered my grandmother watching me teach myself music on my grandfather’s electric organ with dusty, moth-eaten music books. I remembered listening enraptured to my grandfather’s stories from his time in the Navy. I remembered Christmases and Easters and birthdays and Thanksgivings where they gathered more people than their table could seat. I remembered my family holding hands during grace and my grandfather prolonging the prayer with a soppy diatribe about how amazing our family was, evoking groans from everyone at the table, even though we would lovingly imitate him years after he passed.

I nearly cried. Mixed with these memories were thoughts of my family now, of everything that had befallen us after their deaths: divorce, a DUI, a dispute over the will, abusive relationships, failed businesses, alcoholism, a child out of wedlock, heroin addiction, relationships severed, a family lost. We grew apart, sometimes violently, sometimes unwittingly; without my grandparents, there was no sun around which my family could revolve. Not obligated to stay within our orbits, we drifted far-off and away from each other to lead lonelier lives. This was what moved me: the trauma of the present bludgeoning my most precious memories. I had a family then.

That night, Nate, Brendan, his brother Ryan, and I went to Mayflower beach to stargaze. We laid down blankets and sat on the fine, soft, cold sand as the cold wind chilled us and the cold water beat time on the shore. We talked, all the while looking up, but I preferred to listen. Nate spoke of a tempestuous relationship he’d been trying to mend, the value of which he learned from being away from home for so long. Ryan offered advice. Brendan described to me how he and his girlfriend of two years broke up just before summer, the relationship having gone stale. I watched the stars. Sitting so still, I thought I could see them move, slowly, almost imperceptibly, see them drift away from each other, and widen the darkness between them. But if one star were to gather enough planets, they would know true warmth, and that ubiquitous night would be matched by day. The struggle against that night is, at least in part, the purpose of our lives.

As a child, I shared my grandparents’ devout Catholicism and had many childish ideas about Heaven. I used to believe that loved ones who perished kept their bodies when they ascended to Heaven and watched us stumble through our lives. I imagined my grandparents now, in those stars, being those stars. As they watched me, I gazed back at them. Then, they saw me talk with my friends and preserve those bonds that time and neglect render so fragile, but which I resolved to keep. They saw me leave in good spirits the next day, rejuvenated by my friendships, by remembrance, and by them. I drove Nate back to Boston. I returned to the family they left behind.

Michael McCarthy's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rumiante, Beyond Queer Words, The Adroit Journal, and Prairie Schooner. He is currently an undergraduate student at Haverford College and writes for a community magazine in Swampscott, Massachusetts. He is also at work on his first poetry chapbook, titled "Steve: An Unexpected Gift."