All answers contemplated the end, the death of summer at its very beginning. Ask, How long are you out for? and a cloud wiped the sun. Out for a week, a month, and you were allowing yourself to be cheated by life. But only coming out for a month? A week? What was wrong, were you having financial difficulties? Everyone had financial difficulties, sure, but to let it interfere with Sag, your shit was seriously amiss. Out for a weekend at the start of the season, to open up the house, sweep cracks, that was okay. The magic answer was Through Labor Day or The Whole Summer. Then there was the next out: How long are you out for?-and the competition had begun. When did you get out? was the sound of our trap biting shut we took the bait year after year, pure pinned joy in the town of Sag Harbor. We were grateful just to be standing there in that heat after such a long bleak year in the city. It was hard not to believe it belonged to you more than anyone else, made for you and waiting all these years for you to come along. Same sun wrapped in shiny paper, same soft benevolent sky, same gravel road that sooner or later skinned you. When did you get out? Asking this was showing off, even though anyone you could brag to had received the same gift and had come by it the same way you did. Writer Colson Whitehead is author of the novel Sag Harbor.įirst you had to settle the question of out.
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