Thursday, June 16, 2005

Seal Island

I spent my 11th summer on island of the coast of Nova Scotia. A great grandfather had discovered this place centuries before, he set up one of the first light houses in North America. I was born into a family with names written on boats. I was born into a New England family with history.

My 11th summer we had no water or electricity. The children wandered the island, mostly in packs like small dogs. These were fisherman children, boys and girls who’d leave you in a well yet save you from drowning. I loved my first boy there, rode on the back of his motorcycle with hands outstretched like wings. I believed my father could see me all the way from Maine. I believed my father had that much power.

Now it is a bird island. There are no fishermen or children and I believe my family put it in a state trust so it could never be owned, never belong to anyone. It is the last place I felt completely free. The kind of free that makes you dive into the rocks and come up smiling. How much distance do we need to travel to find our eleven year old selves? How many boats do we need to board?

7 comments:

Suzanne said...

Do you realize that with a little tweeking a lot, A LOT, of your recent posts are prose poems? Take me to Seal Island, please? xo

Emily Lloyd said...
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loveandsalt said...

Jesus, those pieces are beautiful Em, Teresa. They are very poetic, but they're also excellent prose. Poets are allowed to write prose. I'd pick up a book like that in a minute!

Emily Lloyd said...
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Suzanne said...

Those are gorgeous!

T, you have to do this, have to. Unless you have ODD and rebel when someone tells you to do something, then I say--don't do it! ;-)

early hours of sky said...

Yes Suzanne, I am an odd rebel;)

But ladies, let me get the first damn book off the ground. She is the one who is giving me trouble.

early hours of sky said...

Oh and I forgot to say I will do it if Emily is my editor b/c I cant find those things anywhere.lol

And yes, Isabel is still Canada.