"Bolivar" by Laura Collier

We grew up there. At least until we were eight. We were a block away from the water. I can feel the seagrass on my skin even now. There was the board in the front corner of the bedroom that Mom and her brothers measured each other with each year. The photo of our great-grandfather pulling a fish out of the water hung on the wall next to the more current photos of the red snapper catch they had in ’85. The green oven that looked plastic next to the sink we used to be bathed in. We had a black and white T.V. with rabbit ears that never really worked. We’d watch for fifteen minutes and race outside when we heard the fireworks, maybe one would catch the neighbors thatch roof on fire again. Mom would chase us out the door with a can of Off and aerosol us down. The sound of the ice cream truck- I always picked the Tweety Bird Popsicle, yellow cream with blue bubblegum eyes. The men would go out in the evening and come back in the early morning with the mythical flounder catch. The flat grey body and beady eyes always looked stale if I happened to see a carcass or two the next day. I never went when I was asked.

We played under the house, chasing each other around the poles that held the house above the sand. We were soup-makers, using sandy mud, shells and twigs and occasional hermit crab, grasping up with its wiry claws, reaching out for dear life. Mom would make us rinse off our sandy feet and bottoms before we came into the house. It was dark sand, thick and sticky. We’d trek up to the Fort to dodge poison ivy and make up stories about the past and the hurricanes and the myths. Sitting on the top we could see the lighthouse- the faded white paint chipping off with each salty breeze. I stubbed my toe the last time I was there as a child. It bruised for months.

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I went back during the summer a few years ago. We rode the ferry back and forth at night. I used to always guess the color we’d get. My favorite was red. The house was different, new appliances, new carpet and a color T.V. I went floundering that night, for the first time- a sense of nostalgia, a sense of finality. I didn’t get one, but I saw the glistening colors under the surface by the lantern light, gold and green in the murky mud. I woke up the next morning and drove back on the yellow ferry.

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They went down to board the house up and took a picture to remember it by. I watched the storm come in on the news. I felt the surge and the waves that night and I knew that it was gone. The only pieces remaining were the stubs of telephone poles peeking out of the standing water on sand that will eventually be condemned.We grew up there. At least until we were eight. We were a block away from the water. I can feel the seagrass on my skin even now. There was the board in the front corner of the bedroom that Mom and her brothers measured each other with each year. The photo of our great-grandfather pulling a fish out of the water hung on the wall next to the more current photos of the red snapper catch they had in ’85. The green oven that looked plastic next to the sink we used to be bathed in. We had a black and white T.V. with rabbit ears that never really worked. We’d watch for fifteen minutes and race outside when we heard the fireworks, maybe one would catch the neighbors thatch roof on fire again. Mom would chase us out the door with a can of Off and aerosol us down. The sound of the ice cream truck- I always picked the Tweety Bird Popsicle, yellow cream with blue bubblegum eyes. The men would go out in the evening and come back in the early morning with the mythical flounder catch. The flat grey body and beady eyes always looked stale if I happened to see a carcass or two the next day. I never went when I was asked. We played under the house, chasing each other around the poles that held the house above the sand. We were soup-makers, using sandy mud, shells and twigs and occasional hermit crab, grasping up with its wiry claws, reaching out for dear life. Mom would make us rinse off our sandy feet and bottoms before we came into the house. It was dark sand, thick and sticky. We’d trek up to the Fort to dodge poison ivy and make up stories about the past and the hurricanes and the myths. Sitting on the top we could see the lighthouse- the faded white paint chipping off with each salty breeze. I stubbed my toe the last time I was there as a child. It bruised for months.

---

I went back during the summer a few years ago. We rode the ferry back and forth at night. I used to always guess the color we’d get. My favorite was red. The house was different, new appliances, new carpet and a color T.V. I went floundering that night, for the first time- a sense of nostalgia, a sense of finality. I didn’t get one, but I saw the glistening colors under the surface by the lantern light, gold and green in the murky mud. I woke up the next morning and drove back on the yellow ferry.

---

They went down to board the house up and took a picture to remember it by. I watched the storm come in on the news. I felt the surge and the waves that night and I knew that it was gone. The only pieces remaining were the stubs of telephone poles peeking out of the standing water on sand that will eventually be condemned.