I have a love hate relationship with the cape: hate how much of it is close minded, hate how isolating it is, hate the high prices of living. Love the other half, the open minded people, the salt of the earth, the tradition, the water, the off season when you smile at other people at the grocery store, your neighbors. New englanders, typically, aren’t exactly outgoing and super friendly, but there’s a shared sense of survival in, say, October and November: we made it through again.
But the other night, I tipped pretty firmly into the love camp. It’s hot, June’s mild sweetness finally giving way to air so thick you can drink it and temperatures so hot the beach is even quiet. Just before twilight, I sat on a beach with friends, a local beach, not one of the ones everyone knows about. We listened to the sounds of a summer concert from the church alongside, traditional harpsichord that sounded a little ghostly with the water backbeat. On the way home, I stopped at Fort Hill where there were waves of purple, sage and blue all around: ocean, flowers, meadow. Fireflies as big as my fist darted and were chased by little birds, swallows and finches and sparrows. The air was still too thick to breath and no-see-ums bit at my arms but I sat there for a bit, watching the ocean crest over the hill. I drove back against traffic and listened to Nick Drake murmur and for just one brief moment I felt all the possibility in the air.