Hello everyone! I’m so glad you’re here.
Hi! Forgive me for the delay- I’ve been busy taking giant gulps of Cape Cod air and dodging my nieces’ surprise raspberries. Beautiful problems to have, really.
We’re halfway through August. How are you?
Are we taking the Bourne Bridge or Sagamore Bridge way? I ask my dad on Monday afternoon while sitting passenger side as we drive from Boston to our family cottage in Brewster- the only place I have visited almost every year of my life for the past 35 years.
Sagamore, why? He answers.
Good. I like Sagamore better.
I am very tempted to roll down the windows and stick my bare feet out, singing we’re in the cape, we’re in the cape, with piggy TOES! as we drive over the bridge, the way we always did growing up, but instead I gaze out at the water reflecting light below us, the now closed Christmas Tree Shop to my left, where my mother always stopped on the way home for candles and multi-colored bags of potpourri.
As my dad turns off US-6 toward exit 82, the highway transforms into a single-lane road lined lined with canopies of pine trees and hydrangea bushes. I insist we roll down the windows because the air here is different and must not ever be taken for granted.
I had to ask my sister the names of these roads while writing this; I know them only through memory and feeling- a quick right turn onto a windy road that will lead us past antique stores and coffee shops, the local public library and general store, lawn after manicured lawn of weathered shingles and tended to gardens, and eventually, a place whose essence is a core part of my DNA.
*
On Saturday afternoon, I caught an Amtrak to Boston to spend two days with my father before meeting up with more of our immediate family in the Cape. The train was overbooked and freezing, but no matter the circumstance, I am always grateful to travel this way after a decade in my twenties spent crammed onto Greyhound buses to save money.
I used to think I’d end up in Massachusetts as an adult, but New York permeates my identity nowadays just as much as childhood summers here did growing up. Still, each visit feels special.
After exploring around the South End all weekend with my dad eating wings, seeing live music, and doing aerial yoga (his idea! 10/10, especially for those of us who love relaxing and want to feel like caterpillars in cozy cocoons), we pack our bags and drive 1.5 hours to meet up with my sister, brother-in-law, and nieces. It rained nearly the whole week before and the air smells particularly fragrant.
My dad is a child of nine. In 1963, his dad, my grandpa Alden, bought a plot of land for $1200 and built from scratch the cottage that would become the Poole family’s most cherished heirloom. The cottage- or as my niece Violet used to call it when she was 4, the college- is not glamorous or equipped with state of the art furnishings. But it has great bones. What it lacks in glamour it makes up for in character and history. Picture low ceilings with large wooden beams, a working fireplace, rocking chairs in every room. A basketball hoop, outdoor deck, and chair swing adorn a sprawling lawn overgrown with ivy. A blanket of pine needles, crunchy beneath the feet. Everything on this property, from the cherry-red shed to the gazebo that sits just across the yard, was built by hand.
Summers here were as idyllic as they sound, if not mildly chaotic due to 25+ people sharing 1.5 bathrooms for weeks at a time. How did we do that?! I think this week as I’m standing in the outdoor shower, sudsing shampoo into my hair. But that’s just how it was. People slept on couches and in sleeping bags on the floor. Cousins of similar ages clustered in groups and spent entire afternoons outside only to come home with blackened feet and ravenous appetites. It was wonderful and wild. I think about it often.
We are sitting around the kitchen table Tuesday night reminiscing on it when we realize that no one owned a reusable water bottle in those days. Yeah! It’s like oat milk and athleisure….you wake up one day and everyone’s drinking it and wearing it and you can’t distinguish between the time before and after it existed.
So do you think we were just dehydrated all the time? my sister chimes in.
Nah, I think we didn’t even notice it. I answer.
I think of my nieces and their beloved pastel-colored water bottles they carry everywhere. How their days are scheduled around meal times and bed times, one parent always aware of their location. Like many things, parenting in 2024 looks much different than the early nineties. One is not better, but I sometimes long for the days when we couldn’t check the time whenever we wanted to, when hours were lost in the backseats of cars that smelled like skin trip coconut lotion and vanilla air fresheners, our only destination the local general store with a juke box and giant gars of pickles at the register, where we’d line up with our overstuffed bags of penny candy then lie to the cashier about how much money we owed them.
*
Because my dad’s side of the family is so big, time spent in Brewster is now cordoned off in smaller sections; each family unit gets about a week to themselves. Gone are the days of 11 cars parked in one yard or fights to get a good spot on the couch to watch a movie. And though I often miss those years, I am more and more grateful to be able to come here still as an adult, and to my relatives that have worked tirelessly to keep this home in the family.
This time last year, Robin had just been diagnosed with her tumor. I cancelled my annual Cape Cod trip and spent the remainder of the summer pondering her mortality. I stayed local for Christmas, not wanting to leave her side. Perhaps it’s why everything feels a tiny bit more magical this year as we drive down the private road to the cottage, gravel crunching beneath the tires as we pass one, two, then three familiar speed bumps. I feel like I want to cry as we pull in the yard. It is exactly as it has always been, and maybe that is the part I love most.
On Tuesday morning, we are walking to the beach with lounge chairs thrown over our backs, an entire wagon filled with bags of babybel cheese and cape cod potato chips. The weather is perfect. The neighbor’s house with the best flower bushes looks better than it has ever looked. I’m thinking of Robin. I am always thinking of Robin. I tell the girls the story of the rainbow the week before, how she gave me one just minutes after I’d asked.
What should we ask her for this week?! they add excitedly.
Hmmm, I don’t know. It has to be more specific than a bird and not something you see all the time here, I answer.
How about a dragonfly?! they chime in.
OK, a dragonfly then. We all agree to look out for one.
A few hours later we are deep into beach life, which mostly entails convincing Felicity that seaweed is not the enemy and applying enough sunscreen that we won’t be hurting later. Again, my sister notices it before me.
Em, look! To my left, a lone dragonfly is perched on a rock about a foot away from my chair. It stops there across from me and stays for a few minutes. ROBIN GAVE YOU A DRAGONFLY! my nieces shout in unison, suddenly giddy.
I sit there watching it. It’s small with dandelion yellow wings. I can’t stop smiling, believing suddenly that miracles really are all around me, and that maybe there is actually a universe where I can say something out loud and she will answer me without hesitation.
I spend the rest of the afternoon basking in the visitation, working on my tan.
My friend Hallie, her husband, and their dog Pesto are staying at my apartment this week while they move into their new place in my neighborhood. The night they arrive, she texts me:
Pesto immediately laid in Robin’s bed and stuck his nose to her box. (her box is her ashes)
And later that night:
He settled so fast it was wild. Your house is a dog sanctuary.
All week, she’s been sending me pictures of Pesto around the house, in my bed, on the couch. He looks comfortable and content. Nothing makes me happier than knowing there is a dog making himself at home in my space while I am away.
The next morning, I receive an email from a producer for a company that features interesting homes. They saw my home tour on Cup of Jo from last August and are interested in working together. When we video chat a few days later, the producer tells me he did some research and knows about Robin and how much our life and home together meant to me.
She passed in May. It’s kind of ironic you’re reaching out almost a year later to the day of that feature. This tour will be very different for obvious reasons, but I’m so honored to share my space in this new way. She’s everywhere, still.
He tells me about his family corgi who passed away in June, and suddenly this person who I did not know a few minutes ago is tearing up on our video call.
*
On Tuesday morning I read a poem that moves me. Instagram is silly for many reasons but every so often it offers a piece of writing that seems like it’s talking directly to me-
The Presence In Absence, by Linda Gregg
Poetry is not made of words.
I can say it’s January when
it’s August. I can say, “The scent
of wisteria on the second floor
of my grandmother’s house
with the door open onto the porch
in Petaluma,” while I’m living
an hour’s drive from the Mexican
border town of Oijinaga.
It is possible to be with someone
who is gone. Like the silence which
continues here in the desert while
the night train passes through Marfa
louder and louder, like the dogs whining
and barking after the train is gone.
It is possible to be with someone who is gone. It is what I need. It hits me in every cell of my body.
I look out at the raging pink sunset sweeping across the jetty I have climbed up for as long as I could walk. I know how each rock feels under my feet, more slippery when wet, cool to the touch even under a warm sun. I know that no matter how many times I watch the sunset here, I will always be surprised by the way it turns water to silk and light to magic. That you can look at the same scene every day for the rest of your life and it will always appear slightly different based on the energy you bring to it.
Right now, my grief is full of wonder. In her absence, she has left me everything.
*
I hope you have a beautiful rest of your week. Thank you so much for being here, today and always.
Emma
See you next week <3
A note: as mentioned last Tuesday, this newsletter has a new look! I realized when making the shift to Substack how much I am a creature of habit and comfort- Mailchimp served me so well these last 3 years. I was very accustomed to the template and format, but I am ready and excited to be a part of this new community.
Everything is staying the same, mostly. You will be still be able to read Tuesday newsletters for free each week. For those of you interested in a paid subscription that supports my writing and includes one additional special monthly essay, you have the option to subscribe.
Ultimately, your readership is what means the most to me. That alone is what I truly value. However you have shown up, I am thrilled to share this community with you.
I would love to hang out with you in the Azores November 2-7! Deadline to register is September 1st! Yoga, hiking, hot springs, community!
I have 1 ROOM LEFT that could be made into a single or double. Is it yours? All info HERE.
Washington Heights community:
Heights Meditation and Yoga is now using the Hebrew Tabernacle space to hold classes until we move into permanent residency. The space is big, quiet, and candlelit, (and classes are starting to get really full again so it feels like a budding community!)
Come join me on Monday nights for 630 vinyasa and 745 restorative.
YES - YOU - ON SUBSTACK!!!!!!!! WELCOME!!!!! The world is better now.
Yet another feel-good, layered dispatch. Welcome to Substack!