I wanted to walk the length of the expanse before me, held back only by the water itself, so I pinched and pulled at the map on my iPhone in search of the nearest spot where brown met blue, uninhibited by docks or harbors. We parked our rental car and made our way down a road that dead-ended at our destination. We got more than we bargained for: a beach of stones and swooping swathes of water divided by a sandbar that reached outward to an indeterminable end. And thus, nearly by accident, we discovered Bar Island Sandbar while visiting Maine this summer. In hindsight we learned that place was as serendipitous as time: the sandbar, which connects Bar Island to the town of Bar Harbor, is exposed only for a few hours each day, during low tide. With one move in either direction we might have seen a different sight entirely. Coincidences, I’ve come to believe, are no small thing.
You knelt as you marveled,
your finger sliding unscathed and unstopped across one’s surface.
We slid it in your pocket
to bear the weight of the whole.
From afar, they are one beach,
the thousands of stones.
The water has closed in and retreated until they lay
with their callouses softened,
Only my feet touched the water.
It lapped and pooled at my ankles,
where I thought I left it behind,
When we returned to the city,
I knew otherwise:
I let the soft tide close in to remind me
how to bend and listen and know,
how to give mercy.
We placed the stone on a window sill
overlooking an expanse of building bricks
and an alley, overgrown.
It has been patient with us—as if to say
it knows we did the best we could,
the sunlight the closest we could return it
to its natural habitat.