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martha |
by Arton Djonbalaj
last year i asked my parents for a cape cod room
you know, with the lighthouse and seagull wallpaper,
with a light blue painted ceiling and white trim bord-
ers, not a single cloud in sight, only a rust-
ed old anchor as an elaborate paper-
weight, deadweight, almost crystalline in nature yet
hardened with layers of asymmetric seashells
i thought i'd collected stealthily as a child,
under the sun, unlike the anchor's blatant lunge
aberrant deep into the sea penetrating
rough oceans, taming hastened waters, hesitant.
last year i asked my parents for a cape cod room
you know, with an adirondack lounge chair near my
white writer's desk, a painting of the vineyard that
hangs slightly above a shelf laden with thick sem-
ester novels and notebooks, many will remain
untouched for years, whilst i endure other pursuits
particularly more substantial in practice
than theory; such as filmmaking, daily mor-
ning coffee, and a jog along the beach of my
cape cod, an old lighthouse stands still in the near dis-
tance, a haunting familiarity, so much
so that i will certainly close the window, seal-
ing its presence outdoors, no entrance, no urge to
see its ugliness, and malice, an impulse to
give life and take it away, i return to paint-
ing what was left of our guesthouse named kennedy,
that was when all the parents left to make polite
conversation with one another, laughing a-
way whilst slightly degrading the gardeners and
the rest of the help, too precise in recounting
origins in the red, white, and blue, it was proof
evident in their nature and disposition.
last year i asked my parents for a cape cod room
you know, with the driftwood that gently returns to
the soft sand after its thorough journey on cold
watery waves that never cease to resonate
their beauty complete with sullen fish and shiny
pearls, with the drenched rope and anchors necessary
for our summer sailboat or our party yacht to
land after days of vodka trips and tequila
shots, after a fleet of cocky white cable-knit
sweaters dancing beside an armed royal convoy
donning tennis rackets, blazers, navy captain's
hats to finish the absurdity, revelry
at its finest, and drunken on the veranda,
summer breeze welcomed with an open window, i
somehow thought i knew, no, i felt quite certain that
i did not deserve only the cape cod room, but
better yet, was entitled to the home, begging,
then just tanning beside the octagonal house
found hidden amongst the other thousand islands
when i was reading hemingway and fitzgerald
near my outdoor bar, no bartender, only re-
tired rust and rope, dust on my perfect new england
hope, where the waves lightly touched upon the edge of
the shore, leaving sand snakes unwanted here and there
i swore—until i ended up with only a
burned back and postcard the following summer, greet-
ings from old cape cod signed sincerely, your sexy
neighbors jaclyn, janet, jennifer, and martha—
i'd ask a favor of anyone, never more.
last year i asked my parents for a cape cod room
you know, that was long ago, last year, it seems like
a century passed and the hope was spent, unlike
myself, but this year the workers finished painting,
the old lighthouse was renovated, with antique
american colors, the window jam fixed so
that the heat could be tamed and with all the old neigh-
bors gone, it was like their kids had returned, though, we're
too learned to make parents' polite-talk, we re-
joiced, laughed off our crazed ivy league troubles, like no
maids or space, it was unbearable, degrading
to our former selves, cheers! to get our vengeance and
move on, so we move, to our own cape cod homes, don't
tell a soul about anything like it's vegas
again, without the chips and games and slots, no tricks,
poker, or roulette only fish and chips, fisher-
man jackets ready to pretend a hard day's work
show-offs play a game of croquet to end the day.
Arton Djonbalaj is an undergraduate student at Columbia University in the City of New York. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Ex Cathedra Literary Magazine. Arton is particularly fascinated by lighthouses, and fond of both urban and nautical lifestyles. Thankfully, Arton was born and raised in New York City.
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