Cove Point

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