Fall From Above

We went to the Vineyard to move in some of our things from storage. As boxes came off the moving truck, each one revealed familiar items I'd forgotten we'd owned. Again, I was struck by how much stuff we'd accumulated in LA, how much of it was meaningless. There were a few items, the Buddha statue from a dear friend which had sat under the oak tree, that brought out a chorus of happy, 'ohs,' as each of us reveled in being reunited with the familiar token. In a strange way, it was like Christmas, but the presents from items you'd had, neglected, or worse, never really noticed.

For us this trip to the Vineyard in October was a first. The island was noticeably quieter, the restaurants--those that were still open--barely full. My son was disappointed to find his favorite pizza and clam strip place shuttered already, the windows newspapered over, chairs on top of tables. There was an air of desolation that was beautiful, such a contrast to the bustle of the summer season. Ocean park was still as inviting, the water as blue. I could imagine the quietude of these months being soothing, an exhale of satisfaction.

The weekend was over too quickly as the small plane climbed up, providing a glorious vista below. I could trace familiar bodies of water, distinguishing towns amidst clusters of trees. I wondered how it was that I knew this island better than any other place in my life. As our planed headed toward Boston, I saw a painterly splashes of reds, a picture reminiscent of a Manet, if he were to pain the scenery from above.