Easternmost

Summer all hot and fragrant in the air, callused feet. Moths fluttering around a porch light and we all duck under them fast and slam the door behind.  Floating in a warm lake at night with blazing stars, heat lightning flashing across the sky and laughter echoing across the water’s surface.  Time suspended.

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We drive north all day, past blueberry fields and ocean and trees forever.  I do not know where we are going.  We stop at a roadside strawberry stand and slowly eat everything in the basket, throwing the leaves out the window to fly away in the wind behind the car.  Listen to old tapes.

In the late afternoon we pull into Eastport, Maine, looking for someone named Sam.  Sam isn’t there but we sit by the waterside and watch the sky grow pink, purple, indigo, black. Map out a campsite.  We’ll be some of the first people in the country to see the sun rise.

We walk to the car to leave and there’s Sam, pulling into the driveway.  He is all surprise and delight and we play pool in a loud local bar listening to club hits while drunk people stagger around us.  Talk in the street.  Look at the stars.

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Sunlight spills brilliant magenta-gold across our tent at five the next morning.  The easternmost point in the US.  We sit by the water; the town sleeps.

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The rest of the weekend is laughter and talks of photography and making polaroids, sitting in diners, eating ice cream, holding up negatives to the light.  I look at these pictures now and think of how talented these people are and a shiver of magic falls over me, still.

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Sam in the kitchen.

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Spencer loading film.

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Sam posing for Spencer.

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Swimming on the way home. 

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