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N
o one liked to make a big fuss in my town. Everyday the same group
of teens bicycled their way to the 7-11 for two-dollar Slurpees as the
same ancient retirees, sprawled on rickety porch chairs, told stories of
their youth to the hurrying passersby. A smell of oysters and bluefish,
mixedwith the fresh snowflakes, seeped ontoMain Street as the fishermen
headed out to sea. Lily, my neighbor with a knack for knitting, hopped out
of her dinky bungalow in an enormous trench coat to retrieve the Asbury
Park Press. As she grabbed the paper, Dr. Farmer watched out his window,
and, as quick as a whip, she shot right back inside. Dr. Farmer took care
of everyone in my town, always volunteering at the clinic or jumping on a
roof to help patch a hole. Turning away from the frosted glass, I perched
on a stool in the dining room, watching as my brother threw Christmas
lights onto the tree, muttering protests. My sister was grumbling about
the latest restriction on her social life: no staying out the day before
Christmas Eve. She glared as I grinned at her complaints. Nothing changes.
“Answer the front door, it’s your cousins,” Mom shouted from inside
the bespattered kitchen, vigorously stirring a vat of cranberry sauce.
Memories of afternoon bike trails and hot tar boardwalks swelled inside
of me as I swung open the door. As my cousins funneled inside, I could
hear the faint final hurrah of day trippers crowding into the train. My
mother hurried us all into the dining room and laid out the spectacular
ornaments. I snatched up my favorite, the pink elephant, as everyone
chuckled and sang charming carols. My brother sat playing Tiddly Winks
with my youngest cousin as Mom and I enveloped the tree with tinsel,
giggling while Grandpa complained about the mess. By the end of the
night, we had sung all of the Christmas carols twice over and drained the
hot chocolate, finally retiring to the living room to watch the late night
flurries. My baby cousin asleep inher lap, Momturned tome andpresented
her famous Mona Lisa smile. She whispered, “Isn’t this wonderful?”
Just a year later, it all changed. Walking down the ocean-side street to
my house, the stench filled my nose, my mouth, everything. It felt as
though the whole sea was in my throat, rotten fish burning my eyes
and the gritty taste of sand on my tongue. It had been two weeks since
the storm hit, drowning the entire East Coast in the Atlantic Ocean.
Somany houses were gone. Bungalows that once housed day trippers now
looked like undercooked soufflés. The yellow house where I wanted to
live as a little girl was split straight down the middle like a shipwreck, its
Pebbles
Esteban Jaramillo (Digital Photograph)
Emma Ronzetti
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