Quechee

The summer after our first year of college, I started going into new places, wondering if I could live there. Of course I could live in Vermont, in the small ski town of your childhood. We ate at Simon Pearce, accepted the small miracle of the corner table on the crowded porch. The brown rocks in the river, twenty feet below us, the lemon circles in our ice water. I remember going into the glass foundry under the restaurant, watching the artisans blow molten lumps into vases, tumblers, and I thought I could learn a skill, live in a small town. We went into the factory store after lunch, the clearance room where we sifted through all the beautiful things with their slight flaws. I bought a pair of mugs with their saucers, thought I could start to collect things, start churning out a life.

If I remember correctly, we went over to Woodstock after that, spent the rest of the day walking around, going into stores, pointing out the best porches, best gardens or window-shapes. I bought two old hats, one a cream beret that I've given away since, the other light-blue with a thin, curling feather. We got ice cream and ate it under the bridge. It was getting late at that point, and I remember it was a little too cold so close to the water. I remember realizing that I was running out of things to tell you, that the sun was going and that I was ready to go home, back across the state line.

Back to New England this summer, so soon. Back to the mountains, back to the coast. The first time I'll be home for summer in three years. Somehow, strangely, I'm returning the same as I left, or nearly: notions, but no plans, only a cup and a hat to my name.

at athe Cloisters: other ways to be buried

I'm glad we walked through the park to the museum instead of waiting for the bus. I'm glad it was snowing and that I had my red hat to cover my hair. The flakes landing like bright silent moths on our coated shoulders. The snow was so thick, there was a blank where the river was, a vague grey hip for the opposite shore. I have to remember to develop those pictures we took in the archway. I tried so hard to love New York.

What a beautiful museum. yes, like Italy. I love the Romanesque, early Renaissance more than other things. Bishops and soldiers buried in the floor of the chapel, thin cordons around them. If you hit the ropes, you'd pitch over them, break your face on the other side of the effigy (preferable to chipping the relic). There weren't any cordons in Santa Croce, and I walked all over the dignified Italian departed. Almost fell flat, tripped by the tip of a marble nose.

It isn't a bad way to be buried. Quiet grave faces, folded hands and pointed toes. I'd have them put me under the stairs in the Newfields house, carve my slab out of wood that matched the floorboards. I'd do that, if anyone would let me: be an old woman sleeping forever in her favorite floor.