by Maura Lee Bee
We drive the hill’s curve. My mother lead me through the earth’s crest, road shaped like the hollow of a clavicle. Our heels sink into the sand—before she remembers to take off her shoes—and arrives to the edge. My toes kiss the stones, jagged and jutting out of the sea. The waves peck the surface. We rise. Under the shadow of the lighthouse is a fence, leaning towards the ocean spray. I zip up my sweatshirt, Sharpied shoes bounding over the gaps. Each lap of the water is a tongue panting, Its recession an exhale. The air burns my lungs; my mother cringes each time I let go of the fence. After the sunken bunker, slowly spilling water back into the body, we see the bluffs—nature’s question mark, a dirt diver carved mid flip, a plain ascending then pausing before the sink.
Years after he walked away, she finds the ring secreted at the bottom of a box. She hands me the hole, carved from onyx, lined with silver. My blue iris reflects in it, a pooling wonder. It rests in my palm. We walk the same path as our mother, climb the rocks mid-winter, inch closer. Our arches shape over the boulders. She reaches into the past. I grab a strawberry from my pocket and we toss this love, from this earth, into the end of the world.
One day, I’ll bring you there. We will journey to the edge, park the car across the adirondack swing. You will wander to a stack of stones, laid by local children, and I’ll watch you from the bluff. The wind will caress my leg. The urge to bring Bergamot wax to my chapped lips will be assuaged. Instead, my skin will be soothed by nature’s salt scrub. My face will be held in the light, chin resting in the sun’s palm. It will be so warm there, begging to be caught in the rip tide, yearning to be swallowed whole.