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The Cove By Megan Marks My cove. My own perfect cove. Ok, so technically it was my family’s cove but I was one that convinced my mom and my dad to come down here. Comprised of 2 coves and 100 acres of woods right next to Beaver Lake, the small cove with the rock shaped bowl was by far the nicest. Even though the rest of my family preferred the cherry and tall pine trees in the woods, I probably would have too, if the cove hadn’t saved me. Gut wrenching, that’s what it was. A deep dark hole dug by depression itself. But I was not going to keep crying myself to sleep every night they wouldn’t want that. My cousin, my grandpa, and my grandma’s house that had been a place of peace to my family was taken away all in a time span of 365 days. I had things I could blame: cancer, Alzheimer’s, money, plain old age, but, I could only blame one thing (or person). At least that’s how I felt. God to me had taken people I love and the place I could have gone to when it happened. Although I was angry towards him, I also turned to him during this time and he answered my prayers with something simple, a place to sit and clear my head. Although we lost my grandma’s house, that was only 7 acres, we still had 100 acres of woods and two coves. Now the woods, my Dad would talk about hiking through as a chill with my grandma and grandpa. I heard lots of stories about that but, the coves my Dad never even mentioned let alone told stories about. The only way I found out was by asking about my grandpa to my grandma. She would tell stories about how he taught her to fly a plane and how they traveled the world together and after he died I asked where his favorite place was and she thought for a while and told me this “ Even though we lived on tropical beaches,

Europe, and most of Asia and Africa, he loved to sit on the cove down the hill from our house and swim to clear his head�. I asked if I could go to the coves, and se said my dad would have to take me because she was to old to climb the rocks and go through the trees to get there. My Dad agreed, when I finally mustered up enough courage to ask him to take me to the cove. I knew that he was still grieving over losing grandpa but I needed to have a special place to go in order to relax and I thought it would be good for my dad to. So I packed my bathing suit and my dad and I drove down to the woods. It was the middle of fall so all the trees were vibrant shades of orange, yellow, red and even some purple. My dad was full of joy when he saw the first cherry tree as we hiked down towards the coves. Leaves crunched under our feet like piles of toothpicks. It was a crisp day when the sun is shining but a breeze helps the air nice and cool. My dad joked saying that Winnie the pooh lived in our hundred acres of woods. The sky was cloudless, though the trees glints of sunshine brightened the shadowy forest floor, and chickadees, blue jays, sparrows, and red robins sang like a choir all around us while little and big forest creatures scurried around. We walked nearly 2 hours stopping once to sit and have a snack of my dad’s homemade trail mix, and when I saw the body of water I knew we had made it, and so did my dad. I slipped off my sneakers and dug my toes into the sand. I had worn my bathing suit under my clothes so I quickly took off my capris and yellow t-shirt and felt the fridged rush of the water on my skin when I jumped into the water. The water glistened like a jewel as the sun hit the top. I could see the minnows in the water like busy little men scrambling around in a

group. I went under and got big handfuls of sludge and letting it seep through my hands as if it was me letting all my grief slip away. I had finally found a place to go and clear my head and relax, to feel closer to my grandfather and cousin. My dad’s spirits lifted too. I found a way to resolve both my sadness and my dad’s. I had found a place where I can go whenever I want. In a way the cove saved me from myself, from the world and I was thankful. Out past the acres of flowery blossoms and towering monuments of timber, there dwells a small cove- a cove of redemption, renewal, and life.

The Cove: a Mini-Memoir  

by Megan Marks

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