A short story by Mary-Kate Burns about coming of age in a small and storied lake town.
But the thing that has stayed imprinted in everyone’s memory — long after Mr. Davey’s parents have passed away, and the children and grandchildren have dispersed across the country, and the size of pilgrimage has grown smaller and smaller until one year, the last hangers-on will quit making the trip, altogether — is the high dive. The high dive is, in actuality, quite modest in size. But in memory, it soars. It rises, sentinel-like, off to the side of the lake: a monument to courage on an otherwise subdued horizon. Kid after kid has passed into pseudo-adulthood in the twelve-foot descent between the springboard and the murky depths of Rockhill Lake.
An excavation of memory, technology, love, and some hilarious home movie footage from Fr. Zachary Burns.
The “greatest hits” of my family’s recovered memories, I think, are something like a debris field. Maybe they’ll never be as important as the events by which our lives are measured—the birthdays, weddings, and landmark family gatherings; or even the cleaner, streamlined events we set out to purposely record. Like debris forever separated from the body of a ship, they’ll always be viewed as separate, and somehow of a different tenor. They may not be the events that define the life of a family, but they are surely the events that explain it. They are the events that, when rediscovered and appraised, seem to point to something beyond themselves—to the larger discovery: the love that infuses them all.