Just Stay

The front porch, where 8 rockers are not enough to hold everyone, so people spill down the cascading front steps, leaning in to hear the conversation or to laugh even if they don't know what was said, is home. Cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and moms and dads and grandparents, ages ranging from 18 months to 85 years. Across the street is the beach, hidden more these days by piles of dunes and sand that have been dredged up for protection. But you can still see the blue and blue - the hazy line of ocean meeting sky and you can imagine the waves because you can hear them, and the gulls. You can smell the salt in the air and it settles in you like sugar in a glass of ice tea. You can feel the ocean drumming like a heartbeat against the beach. Here is my home. 

I don't live here all year, except perhaps in my mind. It becomes my vision board whenever I try to "picture something happy." Instead, we have rented the same house for nearly 50 years. It provides an escape in a way no other can. And in a year like no other, we needed that escape. For too long we were parading along, marching in step with expectations and rules and regulations and trying to keep our game faces on and our heads above water, with kids and jobs and colleagues and family and the grocery store clerk, who really couldn't see us behind our masks. That used to be a metaphor, but now it is meant quite literally. But now, here, we can let down our guard and our masks. Here we can watch the children and feel ourselves becoming children again, awed by the wonder of the sea. 

It's okay to just sit. The porch collects people like shells washing up on the shore. In the early morning, the sun-up risers gather their coffee and cereal and just sit. In mid-day, you wash your feet under the porch and climb its steps to take some rest from the bright, hot sun. In the late-night, the drinkers and partiers and insomniacs gather their wits and share stories of the night and the past.  I have spent time with each of these crowds and had conversations that I thought would never end. They did. I have spent time sitting silently in the new dawn next to my father as he ate his raisin bran covered with a pint of blueberries, me rocking a newborn who would not go back to sleep. I have spent time climbing those steps with a sandy, sweaty toddler, crying from hunger and exhaustion. The toddler, not me. I have spent time smoking cigarettes after bar-hopping around the island, discussing the people we met or met again, and philosophizing about life, still young, wondering what our lives would be like. The porch holds all these ghosts of ourselves and each other. All these memories too. 

There are other places in the house too. My aunt holds court at the dining room table, newspapers from Washington, Boston, and New York spread out before her. She reads them all and then gossips about politicians and Hollywood stars as if she had drinks with them the night before. In the kitchen, Aunt Jeanne is either making a new pot of coffee or cleaning. Always. In the living room, the TV blares the Phillies game, even if it's a re-run. If you didn't get to see the whole game last night, whether you were putting kids to bed or going out for a drink, you can watch again. Because who wouldn't want to do that? And what is really wrong in the world if you can watch a team play and win or lose, go home happy. Upstairs there are beds for anyone who needs one, and there are some downstairs too. If you need to change a baby, make a phone call, or take a nap, you can find a spot. The house holds everyone.

The sea is what draws us. The sky and the sun and the sweet music of the ocean, that seem to settle into our bones and calm our hearts and minds. The moon too, I guess. 

So when we all came back, over 50 of us, toting bags and beach chairs and photos and kids, some we had never had the chance to meet before, we were greeted by the porch. We added a party tent this time for the overspill and tables and chairs. We had food and music and a slide show. And what we wanted more than anything else was for our kids to experience what we had while growing up in this house every summer. Cousins galore, family that never seemed to end ("This is your other cousin..."), laughter that echoed through the house, and love. Love like an ocean that surrounds you and buoys you and plays with you and soothes you to sleep. And that's what happened. After birthday songs and cutting the cake and passing the babies and the old photos around and exchanging numbers, we had to turn and say goodbye. After a whole day of reminiscing and sharing and "How old is she?" and "Where are you now?" we had had our fill. We would see each other in the morning! But what my son said instead was, "Just Stay. Just stay... " And this is what love is. His brothers dragged him out and brought him home to our rental down the street. I wish I had stayed. I wish we had all stayed longer. But we had planned and partied and we were tired. And we did gather the next morning and spend another day together. When it was time to leave, we felt the same way. Just Stay. Just. Stay. I don't know who was saying it, if it was coming from my kids, or the ocean itself, or from somewhere deep inside. But it was all we wanted, to Just Stay. 

Summer is halfway over now, and all I want to do is Just Stay. I want to stay right here, without worries, without getting ready for anything. Without worrying about what's next. Just Stay.