In front of every home, a pile. A mishmosh of things. Toys, insulation, record albums, lumber. A New York Islanders duffel bag, flattened. Building blocks, scattered. Picture frames without photos; photos without frames. Sand dunes inside living rooms, garages. Sea grass wrapped around fire hydrants; sheds nudged off their footings, leaning as if at rest after an arduous journey. A town where the wind-whipped sea reached in, knocking down walls, leaving its mark on fences and homes and whatever else was in the way.
A fortnight ago, the angriest, most ungrateful visitor came, and while she’s now gone, we see that she has yet to leave.
Long Beach, NY.
