Wake up at six. Put the Bialetti on the stove. A few sips as I lace up. Then out the door for a walk to the bay. For three-plus weeks, that’s how I began my day in the little cottage under the magnolia tree.
The pier is a quarter mile long. Some days I’d meet pelicans, herons. Sometimes humans with a pole and dreams of a fish supper. I’d park myself on a bench, close my eyes and listen. The wind at the back of my neck, whispering. At times, voices encouraging me to keep going. Keep writing, Kimberly.
In front of me sky meets open water. On a clear morning, you can see Mobile and the causeway. The air is thick and salty. Bait entrails scattered on the wooden railing, a snack bar for avian passersby.
Faces become familiar. The squat lady in her pink top and patterned pants, her round bottom swishing. She touches the railing in the way you might in a lap pool before turning around, a high-five for making it this far. The codger with his sweat band crown, tank top showing off his biceps. The audio book announcing the arrival of the lady with the visor, her salt and pepper tufts puffed around her ears, phone tucked into her cleavage, narrating a story that none of us is interested in.
Good morning. Mornin. A tilt of the head in acknowledgement. Regardless of our stories, where we slept the night before, we have all made it to this day, this moment on the pier where the purple martins sing and the air clings like peach flesh to a pit.
For several days in a row, as I arrive at the bench where I close my eyes and connect with the ancestors, there’s a man and his pole and his bucket. He delights in this ritual of attaching bait to hook and hurling the line into the water. While he waits, he might have a smoke. Sometimes his much shorter, boisterous friend rolls up on his electric bike to join him and they talk smack in a language that is not English. Laughing, waiting for their catch.
Walking away is difficult, but the work beckons. As I approach where pier meets parking lot, the Jehovah’s Witness folks are setting up their pamphlet station. Workers trim the rose bushes that surround the fountain. It’s an uphill climb back up the avenue, but I’m glad for it, my heart pumping, my skin wet. The day is young and already it is simmering, a stew full of promise.
Sounds exactly right. Do it, girl! xo