Wolfy Chai

I was alone this time when I walked to the end of pier 37. It was another cold, hazy, morning. The sun had come up just enough to waken the sky with a static glow, as if everything was painted in black and white.

I finally made my way to the pier’s first concrete slab and the second my right foot settled on its surface, I immediately felt the weight of fatigue settle on my shoulders as if they were harboring two sandbags on each side.

My pace begun to slow even more. I felt my left foot dragging and trying to get me to turn around. But I kept walking. I kept walking, looking for signs that I should keep going. But everything remained stoic; there were no birds flying, no dogs walking, no people muttering, no boats passing. Just me. Only me.

I wanted to scream into the silence, and in my head I did. But I realized that my voice would be quickly swallowed by the thick marine layer that surrounded me. The sky was left an empty canvas, with so much promise, you could picture whatever you wanted to imagine, or… it could show you what memories you remembered. But no matter what thought you had, like any blank canvas, the sky never truly changed.

The pier wasn’t always hazy. There have been many summers where we let our feet hang off the end, watching the sunset, sharing bread. I had visions from when I was a kid, and when I saw the ocean for the very first time; all our many summers in Maine. The laughter. The glittering sunlight on the sea. The endless games of ring-around-the-rosy. The air felt warmer then (even though it wasn’t), the sky seemed brighter, even my skin seemed to hold onto more color… before everything, seemed to go gray. But for better or worse a place is what you choose to remember it by.

In my life, summer seemed to only last a brief period. And each time the overcast skies and frosts of fall descended, I wasn’t ever sure I would see another summer again. But this summer was unusual. The clouds came earlier this year. The sound of children’s laughter, an echo of last year’s, drenched the shores in silence.

I knew I could be happy, it being just me. But, I always felt a spark inside me that never could ignite a fire without love by my side. Not just any kind of love; a love that saw me. But for my entire life the world had taught me I had to see in either black or white. That the only hues were shades of black and blue. And I listened. I believed them. But like our love, grief could only be seen from the inside. And love for me could only be found in the rainbow’s rays, pinks, orange, and reds.

To everyone else. The beach at pier 37 was just a place to play and act silly, to bring along beers to kill some of the time. They lived their lives loudly, they spoke of their loves with loose tongues wherever they went, each party they’d go, each gathering they’d attend, never did they pretend. Pretend to be something “digestible” “kid-friendly” “PG” as to not offend.

I didn’t let them stop me. I didn’t let anyone stop me. No one could tell me what to do. Even if I were in my own world, it was a world more than big enough for two.

Big enough for me and you.