My childhood summers were spent at a rental cottage on Trafalgar Bay, one of a dozen that were built by two brothers, Lloyd and Bruce Constable. Lloyd had an anchor tattoo on his right bicep and smoked like a chimney. Bruce was beefier and spoke gruffly through the whiskers of his beard. The same families would return each year, renting the same cottages; it was like having a second neighborhood.
The first summer after my father died, my mother packed up our station wagon, bulging with beach toys, lounge chairs, and a microwave oven, and drove my sister and me to Bala, while we sang along to the radio and played ISpy in the back seat. We stopped for ice cream at the parlor next to the grocery store and bought two dozen scones from Don’s Bakery. We would have to ration them out to ensure they lasted the entire month.
Upon arrival, all the returning families greeted us as we pulled in, waving and smiling like we were in a parade. When we reached our small villa, the dads formed an assembly line from our car to the kitchen, while the mums surrounded us, exclaiming over how much we’d grown and how wonderful my mum looked. Nobody asked how we were; everyone already knew the answer.
The men carted items inside while my mum chatted, and my little sister and I played tag with the rest of the kids in the small clearing next to the front porch. Our friends spent the entire afternoon with us, like we were the only people in the world.
Soon, dusk began to fall, and my mother realized the car was still full of our worldly possessions. Her so-called helpers had simply carried everything back out the side door and reloaded it into the trunk, without her noticing. Laughing and shouting, we lugged it all inside before heading down to the beach for an evening swim. It was the first time I’d seen my mother smile since the funeral.
That night, we roasted marshmallows and told ghost stories around the campfire. Everything felt as though nothing had changed. My whole world had been turned upside down, yet somehow this part of my world had landed right-side up. And I knew, in that moment, that we were going to be okay.
Erika MacNeil is a dancer by training, teacher by trade, writer on a whim. Community leader, ally of the marginalized, advocate for the underdog. Look for her work with Rice Paper, Neon and Smoke, and Archived Press. Her writing strives to make something out of nothing, stemming from the person she used to be, then curated by the person she wants to become. Find her on IG @hintsofgrey.
Featured image by Jeremy Tanguay Fernandes on Unsplash.
