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The Last Beach Heather


by Con Chapman


At the end of each summer they would cross
Uncle Tim's Bridge in Wellfleet and clip some
beach heather—sea lavender, some people
call it. Soft, pink-purple flowers, that
she would dry upside down and then put
in a pitcher or a vase, to give some color
to the apartment over a grey Boston
winter, as a remembrance of summer.

One winter it wasn't enough, and he moved out.
There were periodic attempts to reconcile
but he had settled down, and she still
wanted to be wild in her ways, to prolong
their bohemian days. Never one to save,
she'd spend her paycheck on a harpsichord
concert, or violin lessons for herself, still
a beginner at twenty-five.

He laughed at that behind her back,
but she laughed too, at the dinners
they had to go to now, where the laughs
were poured out in miserly fashion like
the more-expensive wine they drank now;
Instead of manic tears flowing down their
cheeks, each little titter was weighed and
savored; good God, she said one night,

I hope we don't grow old like that!
But he saw nothing wrong with the men
who'd given him a job that paid the rent
at the lovely little terrace apartment
she said was what she'd dreamed of
for so many years in the woods of
Connecticut. He reminded her of
that one night; love isn't logical, though,

and that was the end of that. She moved
to a garrett on the back side of Beacon Hill
where the sun seemed never to shine, while
he moved to the sunny side of the street in
the Back Bay. Eventually he met and wooed
and won a woman more like the man he'd become
and they went to Wellfleet, where he wanted to
show her where the beach heather grew.

They crossed the bridge, and he was bending over
to clip a sprig at the end of the summer, just as
he had before, when a voice called out to him:
“This is the National Seashore—you're not
supposed to cut any plants,” a woman said.
He stood up and turned around, and yelled out
“But I've been doing this for years.”
“Well, you never should have, so stop now.”

Not one to break the law now, he put the clippers
back in his pocket. They crossed the bridge,
got in their car and drove home. On the way
they bought some beach heather—
and much more—at a cute gift shop that
his wife had spied. Things, he thought,
that were free before, were now bought
at a high price, and came wrapped in bags.

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