Like a besotted teen, I cannot turn away.
At four, 14 and 24, my summer days rushed from sandcastles to skiing to sailing. I little understood my grandfather in the sunset of his life sitting immobile on the patio he built on the dune overlooking the bay. He was as much a part of the bayscape as the afternoon whitecaps or rainbow-hued spinnakers. As afternoons slipped into evenings, he sat as if atop a totem pole, skin bronzing to a burnished red-brown that made my blue-eyed blond brother tell skeptical teachers his grandfather was an Indian.
More than a quarter century has passed, and I sit in his chair on the patio he built on the dune overlooking the bay. It’s a body I’ve come to know well. Sultry or cold, glittering or dark, she bewitches with her quicksilver moods. My book lies unread in my lap.