Postcard to Self

Cap't Cass Seafood, Rock Harbor, Orleans. It closed during the pandemic; a new owner is remodeling it. Can't wait to get another clam roll. Photo by Meggy. Check capecodchronicle.com for "New Owner Eyes Spring Reopening For Cap’t Cass Restaurant."

The view from Salt Pond Visitor Center terrace. A tonic.

With Meggy at the Audubon.

Ornithologist James at the 8:30 a.m. bird banding program.

Highland Light, Truro. Photo by Meg.

Dear Present and Future Alice,

You had a great time this week. You drove to the Cape with Sis in her Connecticut car. As the promised land came closer, you looked for cranberry bogs to the right, on Route 6 East. Each mile driven was another measure away from drama and fear over teen struggles. You filled your lungs, unclenched your heart and breathed. Dan was good to hold down the fort for five days; school was in session.

Meg and Greg came from Vermont. You all took so many walks. You had two dinners at home (Meg made jambalaya and Sis, chicken with lemon, shallots and kale) and ate two dinners out. You enjoyed calm companionship and conversation.

You put your feet in the sea, let the water swirl around. You stood tall. Your gaze held steady on the horizon. You picked up a rock tumbled by the waves and a broken clam shell, souvenirs. Broken shells are better because they are real, like imperfect life. Jagged maybe, but still beautiful.

The pink and white salt spray roses smelled sweet. How resilient they are, how plucky. Blooming by the rugged sea, thriving by saltwater, churning and rough. Honeysuckle perfumed the air on the paths. You saw old touchstones from childhood. Coast Guard Beach. Salt Pond Visitor Center, with that hidden, unchanged museum. Scrimshaw and a whaling captain's top hat, recordings of Wampanoag stories, an empty wooden cradle, a primitive bicycle. Memories of Cape Codders gone by.

Now, home. You can't pour from an empty cup, the young DBT therapist, E., said this morning before starting a telehealth appointment with Punch. You had mentioned your time away, and E. had approved.

The bathroom mirror. You looked in the bathroom mirror up there on the Cape, where you have sought the truth and judged your beauty since age 19, when the house was new. Then, no makeup. Now, mandatory concealer and brow pencil. Mascara. Then, longer hair. Now, shorter, and colored. Skin crinkles. It's okay. It's all okay. The secret to beauty is accepting yourself.

You saw yourself there as a young mother and wife, with Dan and Figgy. All the things you did with them. Your short white nightgown with thin straps and scattered flowers, you turning the faucet, adding the bubbles, filling the tub for Fig so she could drift to sleep clean and fresh. Then Punch as a restless baby, never tired. Dad, of course. Friends and their children.

Already, less than 24 hours back home, the stress meter is up. Problems don't vanish. You're not saying that out of self-pity, or for sympathy, only out of self-truth. But you do not have to amp up the stress.

Remember your cup. Remember to fill it. 

Love, Alice, age 62

Selfie.

Ranger-led lecture on lobsters.

Meggy, dear friend and roommate from Douglass College, with her camera.

Sis looks good in that hat!