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            Cove Point
            By Lyn Lifshin

            Some afternoons, in a certain
            mood, there's a word, a name
            I have to remember. Some
            times its for no reason: the
            twins I never could remember
            till I thought of cameras in the
            attic: Garret and Cameron.
            Yesterday it was the ramshackle
            casino, it's name over the lake
            where, for the first time, in
            white shorts and tan legs, my
            heart banged: would I be
            asked to dance? And what of
            "The Mocking Bird" with its
            kiss her in the center if you
            dare. You have to remember,
            I was the plump girl with
            glasses of course I didn't wear
            those nights so a lot blurred.
            I was the girl who won science
            contests and art awards. To have
            boys who didn't know I was
            brainy, ask will I... was like
            heroin. "Ramshackle Pavilion"
            in a lost student's poem sent me
            to Google, to Lake Dunmore,
            Branbury Beach: nothing. I knew
            it burned down as if it never had
            been there. Chimney Point? No.
            With so many of my friends
            going, the name of this dance hall
            where I first felt pretty is a comfort
            I'm starved for. I email VT tourist
            sites, history sites with little
            hope until in a warm tub I think:
            diary, the little red one with a
            lock that never worked there
            near the bed. I turn to August's
            and there it was with seven
            exclamation points and what I'd
            been hunting for in so many
            ways: Cove Point




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Document last modified on: 12/09/2006

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