Provincetown Redux

Race Point

This is where the day ended yesterday.  I waited for the early morning sun and found it peeking between the rooftops on Conant Street, sanguine and serene.  I'd been waiting such a long time--maybe months--but there it was again. I followed it along the soft wavy brick walks of Commercial Street, past Joe's to the ripply low tide harbor, and finally to its grassy cradle beneath the icy winds of Race Point.  This is how day ends here.  

The bright colors and characters along the streets and lanes here speak an uncommon joy. I saw someone wearing seriously bright, bright purple leather boots.  I beamed.  My own feet cheered at the possibility.  I saw sparkly scarves and mad bomber hats.  Black glitter sneakers.  Friendly faces. Swirly snow.   Even in the dead of winter, these streets infuse joy and warmth.  

Yet, that wasn't really it this weekend.  Look up.  Or try not looking up. In spite of your joy boots on the ground, your eyes will drift upward. Town Hall, The Meeting House, and Pilgrim Monument all seem to point you there.  The Provincetown sky arcs over head like a transparent shield, expanding forever and ever, but tucked around our edges like a blanket...and here we are, under cover, safe and sound.  

I walked from the West End to the East End and back again, retracing summer steps, remembering the happiness of that time.  I could still hear the echo. But my eyes were fixed on now, the present sky, my feet following the sun to the edge of the night, the edge of the sea, and the very edge of the sand. Racing forward into the wild wind, I opened my arms wide and ran down the beach, silently shouting thank you to something or someone, and holding on to this peace.  I watched as the last drop of sun was absorbed by the earth. 

This is how day ends, here...