kitty hardy
Land and Sea My whole short life unfolded in a clapboard shack in the trees. It ended in the sea. From our porch of raw wood, a winding dirt trail led down to where the ocean froths against the sand. You could dip your toes in the cold Atlantic, cold even in August. If you stood in it too long your joints would turn stiff and begin to ache and you'd understand how a swimmer could seize up and sink to the bottom like a stone. From the beach there was a scramble up a stone wall that shapeshifted after every storm. Father called it his widow's walk. He'd walk up there often to the prow of the cliff, where he'd stand straight as a flagpole, his red flannel shirt pulsing in the wind. He looked out of place by the sea, awkward and unyielding. He doesn't belong among the bent and gnarled trees that worm their roots down into stone. He is of the woods. He belongs among trees that stand as tall and straight as he and
antilang- n-4
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