The music venues that were spared have opened their doors again. I dial the number of a friend to arrange to meet at the hall at the end of the boardwalk. There’s a concert later: four acts, each renowned. It’s important to arrive there early to avoid the crowds, though I might be overthinking the whole thing. As of this date, the death toll has surpassed one million, and most people aren’t that willing to take the risk. It’s safer to catch a stream. A woman picks up, and I leave a message with her. It’s loud, and the connection is poor. She speaks with a foreign accent. People are driving mechanized vehicles on the wood or composite wood. No one has any respect anymore. Nonsense. Extirpate your negative thoughts, Dick. Look at the strollers of hope. Seek respite in the tides.  Here’s a wedge of beach that looks pristine and unmarred. I can either hop the fence, which is a drop for my 50 years or walk to the steps. On the steps I pass a family and overhear them discussing the draft in their room that was so strong last night it moved their beds. I think to myself: I too have dwelled in such beds. I can offer one local’s explanation that certain properties here, hotels particularly, are haunted, but I demur. The sky is cerulean. The hall in the distance has been restored to its former glory. My love and I have reconciled. I smile thinking about all of the great music in this world.

– Richard George