On a brisk fall day in Orono, Maine, I moved into Estabrook Hall on the University of Maine campus as a freshman sharing a third-floor room with a roommate from a nearby town. During my first week, I met the man I would marry four years later, have children with, and move with as he climbed to professional success. That fall he was best friends with my roommate's boyfriend, and all were from the same town. As the days progressed, the men were frequent visitors, and I ended up walking behind the couple beside this man as "the fourth." In my poem, "Bar Harbor,"* I capture the enjoyable, embracing love we shared for many years as he grew in achievement while I alternated between success and suffering. I now understand this man played a strong karmic role in my life as a provider and a protector. At a point when I needed to grow in a new way—emotionally grow up—the marriage ended in pain, initially for him and our daughters, then later for me. Recently I was listening to an NPR interview and heard the guest* pose this question, "Do I love you more for you, or do I love you more for me?"* In an immediate jolt of recognition, I realized that I had loved my husband in the only way I knew—I had loved him for me, not intentionally, but damagingly nonetheless. The ultimate accomplishment of that destined meeting one brisk fall day in Orono, Maine would be how we each grew in self-awareness, and in time gained new mutual admiration.
1962
BAR HARBOR
So we broke branches off a bush with blueberries, and holding
hands, we carried them trailing through the warm air in our
free hands and walked on. Past rough bark of the scrub pines,
needles pricking the edges of our sandled feet, down a slope
where, laughing, you said, “I’ll help you,” then fell.
I wondered aloud, “What kind of help is that?”
Up and off, stopping to hear a kinglet or watch a monarch
poised on milkweed, we talked rambling thoughts, or just
felt the slight pressure of our hands. This was our first
summer together.
Through a clearing, onto a stretch of sheltered beach, we
kneeled to rest by a pile of clam shells, and breaking several,
wrote our names in big, sweeping letters, knowing the low tide
would take them before the day ended. Your skin reddened
under the sun, as you’d taken off your tee shirt, and across my
forehead perspiration wet down long strands of my hair,
blowing awry in a salt breeze.
“Promise,” you said, and I said, “No,” knowing that I had.
But I wasn’t going to let you know.
“Race you to the water,” I called, dragging my feet free of
straps, digging my toes into the ridgy sand. Up to my knees in
cold, tangy waves, I lunged out beyond my reach into a shallow
dive, calling, “Last one...” my voice trailing off.
That was the first time we made love.
PJC 1983
My realization is, "To look at the past from the difference of the remembering in that time and the remembering now may offer new acceptance—with a surprise of appreciation come due."
* As heard on Northwest National Public Broadcasting (NWPB) Radio Schedule, April/May 2022, Source Unk.
* Prema Jasmine Camp, A Flower for God: A Memoir, (Seattle, WA: Wilson Duke Press, 2021), "Bar Harbor": Peregrine Vol. I, 1983.