LEGACY JACKIE CRAVEN
I come from a long line of cliff-leapers. Our home was on Chopakict, a rocky island just off the coast of Maine. You’ve probably never been there (not many people have), but you may have seen pictures. The astonishing cliffs along the northern edge of the island inspired Winslow Homer and several other important artists. Their paintings, however, were only approximations—no one can capture the enormity of our cliffs. Imagine, if you will, ragged granite as black as oil rising from a thrashing ocean, soaring up and up, reaching as high as the Empire State Building. Now imagine standing at the very pinnacle, the ocean so far below that its roar is no more than a soft, seductive swish. If it weren’t for that sound and for the salty taste of the air, you might never guess that an ocean lay below. Even when the sun is bright, a heavy white blanket of clouds obscures the view. They say my grandfather was twenty-five when he rode his mule through town and hollered that he had discovered the secret of flight. The blacksmith stepped out of his shed. Smoke from his forge made tears run down his red-hot cheeks. “Clarence, what are you yowling about now?” he asked. He and my grandfather, a silversmith, were always quarreling about something. The blacksmith’s wife, Missy, stood two feet behind her burly husband, her blue eyes bright as a branding iron. “Says he’s gonna fly!” she whispered hoarsely. Missy’s words echoed along Winding Way, hissing and swishing like the faraway waves. “Says he’s gonna fly,” said the grocer, spilling flour all over his polished leather boots. 8
Berkeley Fiction Review
