The Point

After my grandmother died, I remember going on a trip to see a piece of land named after her.  It was a small natural area buried in the concrete desert of New York City.  I remember it was cold, and the branches snapped and they cracked underfoot as we trudged down the path.  I was ten or eleven then, fresh from my first experience with death and in the tender care of my family.  Virginia Point.  Standing there, one could gaze over a salt marsh that teemed with subsurface life but at that time looked dead and cold.  It seemed broad and untouched, unmarred by the corrupt hands of man. That first look over the cord grass pointed me towards the power, grace, and importance of the environment.  It was transcendent.

            My father was with us that day.  I imagine he laid a heavy hand upon my shoulder as we gazed across the muddy flats.  He was probably already ill, though no one knew it.  Nearly two years later he would die from malignant melanoma.  I often wonder what he felt on those November days, surrounded by his loved ones, watching the sun’s rays ebb and blaze on the far side of the sound.  Was he hopeful for the future?  Was he stricken by the loss of his mother?  Or was he simply tired, harried by a strange lingering fatigue?

            I returned recently to the spot with my brothers.  It sits on the end of a suburban street along the north side of Long Island.  The walk to the lookout was shorter than I remembered.  Trash littered the place.  We saw a notice asking for information leading to the arrest of two kids who set fire to an osprey nest.  Four rough-looking teenagers smoked on the trail.  The view was nice but unremarkable.  Houses lined the shore of the marsh, and straight ahead I could see the squatting squalor of the Bronx.  Strange what we remember and what we don't. I tried to get excited, tried to educate my brothers on the importance of the salt marsh, but the effort felt wasted.  We left in low spirits, pausing to take a piss on the way out.