In between, we satisfied ourselves with calling Margie which allowed us to conclude her good humor was seeing her through her isolation.
Me texting my sister: “So the evening news is freaking me out. I’m staying here… I hate this. I really want to get out of Brooklyn.”
Sue: “You will be fine. I promise.”
Faith in my big sister: “I’ll come down to your house.”
Tom lives to photograph. I’m nothing if I can’t untangle lives that went before us. I think for us both, Dead Horse Beach is a portrait of brutal carelessness, giving up its ghosts with each low tide. That it draws so many to it–Tom and me, for instance–in wonder of its past and what it teaches us today is a reason to celebrate all the ugliness strewn across the sand.