Shadows of the past

This afternoon I found myself in Marshfield. That, in itself, wasn't too surprising -- I'd been
planning on going there all week. What surprised me was how different the Marshfield I
found was from the one I left behind.

Marshfield is more or less like it sounds: a collection of beach houses and inns, new money
mansions and old fishing shacks, gathered on the edge of low, swampy country by the
ocean's edge. Once upon a time -- it seems like just yesterday when I think about it,
though it seemed ages ago today -- I lived there, and loved there, and edited a little
newspaper there. I'd even thought of settling down there, until circumstances changed.
Life has a way of doing that sometimes.

I stopped to buy groceries at a supermarket that had once been called Angelo's and later
become Purity Supreme, then Star Market. That change happened when I was living
there, and I remember covering the grand opening of Star Market for the newspaper: the
wide, polished aisles, gleaming with fresh produce and the kinds of exotic foods (Coconut
soup! Basmati rice! A whole foods section!) I'd missed since moving to Marshfield.
I always loved shopping there -- as an editor, I'd run into town officials and local heroes;
as a schoolteacher, I'd meet parents and students. The food wasn't always the best, and
it certainly wasn't the cheapest, but I felt part of something, coming there.

In those days, I'd almost always be doing my shopping on the way to or from somewhere
-- covering a story at town hall, visiting Brad or Jason or Stephanie or Trish or Kristen and
Alicia in the city, attending a meeting of my writing group, attending classes at Curry,
going to see Kezia. I hardly ever had time to cook, and the kitchen in my tiny apartment
made entertaining difficult (I couldn't fit a whole dish into the sink at once), but I still
brought home something new and different from every trip to the grocery store, and hosted
dinner parties, with half of the guests sitting in the living room, and the other half in the
kitchen, perched on plastic deck chairs, stools, and anything else I could find.

These days, Jason's moved away, Kristen and Kezia are married, and Stephanie, Trish and
Alicia might as well be. My new apartment is warm, large, and accommodating, and yet
I almost always eat alone. I do my shopping late at night, when the only other people in
the long, empty aisles are police officers, and stoners, and those leaving the late shift.

The Marshfield Star Market is now a Shaw's, and it's lost something in the translation.
It seems smaller now -- the ceilings seem lower, the lights dimmer, and there's that
smell supermarkets have when they've begun to slide, the faint odor of bad meat. It isn't
a terrible place, by any means -- they had Cherry Coke, after all -- but I felt very strongly
as though I didn't belong there any more, and I wasn't sure which of us was responsible
for the change.

I'm not the same person I was when I lived in Marshfield. I'm not sure if I like the person
I've become, or if I've just learned to accept him. As I drove out of town, I couldn't help
thinking about the changes still to come -- how my life will be different once Brad leaves,
for instance. This is his last weekend in Boston; he's off to Bermuda next week, and then
gone to Wisconsin. Brad's been a part of my life for so long that it's easier to imagine
myself without one of my hands then without him living nearby. He's put up with my moods,
shared my experiences, introduced me to his friends, even let me pick the movies we
watch (and if you know anything about my taste in movies, that's no small sacrifice). He's
also one of the most intelligent, honest, and interesting people I know. It's hard to
believe all of that is going to be gone in a few days.

Or maybe not. I received an e-mail tonight from one of Brad's friends inviting me to a
going-away get-together at his house in Cambridge. I've spent a lot of time with Brad's
friends during the past year, but never really felt accepted by them. The e-mail meant a
lot. Maybe there's something to be said for the future after all. I suppose I'd better get
used to it; I plan on spending a lot of my time there.