Gloucester, Mass

 

Summers my father
Would appear at five fifteen
He’d leave work early

Wear his bathing suit
Walk into our rocky sea
Happy to swim out

We would all watch him
Strong and sure he swam out out
He always swam home

 

We are in Gloucester for our fifth day. Some places have an immediate appeal. It’s possible, maybe, to make up reasons why. Not that reasons aren’t legitimate. They are, but they don’t have much to do with love. I grew up on the beach every summ in Woodmont Connecticut down the block from my best friend Abby Glazer and we were all summer happy.

What’s better than good about this place (it’s easy enough to find good, not as easy to find better than good, pretty hard to find WONDERFUL) is the light, and  real boats where fisherman catch many different fish every single day and the opportunity to eat as many clams as possible at infinite clam shacks, also lobster rolls and other perfect  summer foods like french fries and burgundy pie (I never knew what it was before: blueberries and raspberries or blueberries and cranberries, perfect either way) and then there are beaches and parks and many vintage stores clothes and books and of course the sunrises and sunsets. But there are other reasons too. Reasons why people write poems and stories and paint endless pictures (really endless) of what it feels like in Gloucester, Mass.

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