as we wound through argilla road, the black fly boxes freckling the marsh pulled me towards the annisquam river when high tide would reveal a corn maze of temporary sea paths pulsing the salt marsh between gloucester harbor and wingaersheek beach, ideal for jet-skis and small watercraft like my father’s love and sea-worn boston whaler.  with one hand tethered to the stiff, crunching bow line, i would stretch the other starboard side, palm down, to glide the blue green surface, fighting the S curves, slapping waves and streams of giggles, unphased by the pinch-pinch of the flaking wood bench and sodden coral cushion on the back of my sunburnt legs.

before we even reached the crane estate and your heart sleeve devoured the great house and all its charm history grandeur atop the rolling green spread, statued and sea-dropped, i had already fallen easily to a full yes, we would be married here, as i reached passenger side, palm up, to squeeze-squeeze all those sunburns, all those warm afternoons, all those black fly boxes firmly into your hand as we wound through argilla road.