The pier closes after Labor Day but they never lock the gate at the far end. I found that out the October after Maren left.
Everything was shuttered. The fry stands, the ticket booth, the carousel with its sad painted horses. Just me and the wind and a six-pack I bought warm from the only open store on Route 12.
She'd kept a churchkey bottle opener on her keyring. I still had it. I think she forgot it or maybe let me keep it. I used it to pop the first cap and the sound carried all the way out to the foghorn.
Maren delivered babies for a living. A midwife who caught other people's beginnings, and somehow couldn't hold on to her own.
We sat on this same pier once, in July, shoulder to shoulder, her feet swinging above the water. She said she wanted to learn to fish. I said I'd teach her. We never got around to it.
I finished two beers and left the rest on the bench for whoever came next. The churchkey I put in my jacket pocket, not on my keyring anymore. Not hers to lose again.
Driving home I realized I wasn't crying. First time in months. Just the road and the fog and the sound of that cap popping, still ringing somewhere behind me.