Barefoot, the boards smooth from so many feet, proud in our t-shirts, our ginger tan and sunburned noses, we walked for hours and I think we believed this was life and it would never end. The grand hotels had names like Sea Spray and Cove, their shutters sea-foam green, the balconies wire, elegant that echoed eras gone by. They were the salted palaces we never stayed in but wished we could. God, how we longed to. How we envied the children who had parents cooler than ours to stay at such grand places. "Our parents suck," we agreed. They sucked because they never stayed on the boardwalk and we had to endure the humiliating hell of a 'family' motel further down the beach, away from the main action. It was awful, tragic.

But those gray days, aimless, letting the boardwalk take us, not wondering where or why, those were the best days and the ones I remember most. We sat proud, wearing our new t-shirts, letting our feet dangle over the edge of the boards as we stared at the fierce, gray ocean. Old men with metal detectors combed the beach, waving their dishlike apparatus back and forth across the sand. They all wore the same khaki-colored, crushable hat with grosgrain ribbon. The lucky among them found lost treasures, gold watches, a single hoop-earring. Sometimes, one of the giant sand-combs would go by - large yellow tractors with rakes on the front and back, trailing the beach, smoothing out the footprints and picking up the refuse of Coke cans and paper cups. These machines were all hypnotic - the way they moved back and forth, slow-combing motions, the sea churning behind them. They brought us peace. You could smell the rain on wet cement of the streets that led to the beach and french fries cooking in hot oil. I was awkward, fifteen, unsure of myself, my brother twelve or thirteen. I remember a day like the one I describe; Richard looked at my funny, freckled face and said, "You're lookin' real pretty, Sa..."

He didn't belabor the point, and naturally, I was cool and said 'thanks' and fumbled with my cigarette, but I was grateful. So grateful for these small, economic words. Pretty. So concise. I held on to them for dear life. I was pretty. I still hold onto those few words he uttered. I think neither of us felt loved, at least, not in any way we could understand, so we loved each other. I didn't find my little brother annoying like I think I was supposed to, and he didn't find me hopelessly 'girlie.' We were best friends, supporting each other the year long, allies in an American Gothic that takes place in suburbia with every generation, behind the neat doors of colonial houses, the dirty little secrets of seemingly decent homes where people use Crest and the bathroom smells of Clairol's Herbal Essence (the original kind). Richard and I were confidantes, points of reference, the calm in the storm.