Last weekend bloomed another heatwave. By the time he made it to Houthavens the sun was already making its descent. The throngs of pretty bodies clustered along the wharf like lazy sea lions huddled together to get the last bit of golden rays.
Fires everywhere big and small. We all feel how the Earth is shifting, how our world has altered. And yet in this tiny country we still bask in the warmth of a good summer. Underneath our delusion simmers the knowledge that the longer days of heat that we enjoy to tan our bodies means migration, environmental changes, loss of life.
Two things can be true: we are grateful and guarded.
(Sadly and thankfully the hot streaked has ended, at least for now. A forecast of rain for the next two weeks is the reprieve the brittle grass and dry soil need. This long stretch of grey marks the end of a summer and a return to structure and seriousness.)
He questions everything and for the first time in a long while he allows himself the luxury to sit with them. Unfixable, unknowing, questions as gifts, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in riddle.
For instance, are friends really that important?
He’s observing all the people along the wharf and on the dock, a British Mom taking her kids out onto the water on a SUP as the Dad looks on from the dock, three strapping men taking turns diving, a crew of older Dutchmen continually drinking beers as they blare hard techno from a portable speaker, a group of girls lying on a patchwork of beach towels, sharing chips and hummus and their plans for next summer…
He’s grappled with this for most of his life. A desire to belong to a community, to some place, creating a solid sense of identity. This longing now feels ancestral, an heirloom passed down from generations, from a lineage of people who were colonized over and over, struggling to find a place to belong.
