She is a Beach House

A little worn and weathered,

the foundation not entirely stable

but that’s what makes her creak unique

and you feel quickly acquainted when you tiptoe into her.

She’s not elegant, though you can adorn her with sheers and sparkles

and bring her to life with your ambient beats and a fine tequila.

Inside, she has all the essentials

enough that you’ll feel peculiarly at home within her walls.

She shudders sometimes from the relentless weather that wears her down

and the old wooden siding bakes but somehow softens her in the sun.

When the horizon invites the rays to rest in the early autumn evening,

you can warm up next to her radiant heat.

The winters are cold and harsh, so she battens down her hatches and waits

tranquil and still under a blanket of ebony sky

until the springtime streams begin to swell

and the lake in front of her turns that cobalt blue.

Then she’ll throw open her shutters and welcome the comfort the beach house so desires.

You won’t make a home in her as she is not the place you want to spend a lifetime.

No one ever could.

Too many vulnerabilities with her uneven floors

her furniture discrepant,

velvet and cotton

flowered, paisley, and plaid,

but she’s ill-equipped to house you that long anyway.

She may keep you warm on cool nights

but when the sheltering clouds disappear and the stars shine their brightest

a deep freeze will inevitably set in

and she’ll be unable to sustain you.

She doesn’t care much about anything anymore.

She’s tidy but cares naught for style nor perfection.

She simply stands composed, sanguine as the storms come and go

and she basks triumphant and alone, once that ravage relents.

She longs only to be a beach house.

You’ll sit down to mismatched tableware

and cutlery collected from all the old homes she once was.

When you look inside her, there are traces of beauty that make her enchanting in her own way.

She dresses in heavy linen, cheap oil on canvas, worn leather, and fresh cut wildflowers sprouted from her garden.

She offers you that generations-old quilt to wrap around you by the fire

the one that has somehow become everyone’s favourite when they visit the beach house.

And when you step inside her, you feel calm and at ease,

even though you feel the rickety floor boards beneath your feet

and your heart may skip a little with her unpredictability.

That’s why you like to visit

but why you just can’t stay

because she was never anyone’s forever home.

She is a beach house.

You don’t have to be anything you’re not with her

let down your hair

your troubles will still be there

tomorrow.

She is all you need for today, a night beneath her frame

to find the balance you seek through your stay at the beach house.

Squalls roll in and despite a sort of melancholy in her air,

she endures, she strengthens

keeping that roof atop her rafters.

You can kick off your sandy shoes

toss your cap and keys on the scratched console table

throw your watch on the armoire

and drape your clothes across the tattered chaise lounge.

And when you are ready

you can unfasten the latch

on those fragile frames of delicate glass

and stand naked in the bursting rays of sun.

At the beach house, you can just be yourself

because one doesn’t build a beach house

one becomes a beach house.

Even in the most vulnerable of conditions

you’ll always feel safe there.

You’ll never find bone china or crystal stemware

sculptures, fine art, or luxurious textiles

like the high rises in the city, and the suburbia of the Jones’.

When you come to the beach house

it’s simple and unpretentious.

You’ll always feel enough

inside her.

Sure, the beach house could be

more elaborate,

more elegant,

more ornate.

But she’s just happy to be standing, with the undeniable ease of her existence.

You see, she may not have the finer things

but she can always offer you the finest things

and the beach house will always help you to understand the difference.

She doesn’t quite fit with all those summer homes rising around her

encroaching on her isolation, disturbing her solitude

but no one stays there for long either because along that stretch of beach,

temporary pleasures.

They always go home and she remains, she endures, the beach house.

In her, you know the distinct whistle of her kettle

and the inviting crackle of her log burning fire.

She’ll offer you a cold beer or a strong dark rum or just a hot milky tea

and in her, you can just be, free.

And when the wind blows from the south,

the waft of jasmine and cedar penetrates your senses

and you can breathe deep, releasing all you have escaped to be with her.

She’s not the kind of place you tell your friends about

because the beach house is somewhere you unbecome everything everyone thinks you are.

The door is spring hinged so you can step into her simplicity at will

her wind chimes, they welcome you with that mystic chant

and she will be home for as long as you need her.

Visitors are transient she has come to understand

so she must board up from time to time

to let the beach house restore itself.

Within it she tends to the places others have damaged

trying to make her theirs

trying to make the irregular regular

the imperfect perfect.

The beach house isn’t concerned with such absurdity.

She wants to be a refuge, a hideaway

where everyone can be free, fearlessly,

just like the beach house.

Every chip of peeling paint

every warped baseboard

every leaky faucet

every raggedy shag carpet

the lampshade tipped slightly off-centre

tarnished brass

the cluster of shoes by the door

the dog dander that rolls in tufts from beneath the bed when the wind comes howling through,

flawlessly flawed.

She never surrenders to the pressure of becoming more

so manage your expectations before you step inside her door.

Desire nothing and you will gain everything.

She is a beach house.