The Harbor House

The Harbor House
As you look upon the dock, its dark brooding complexion reflects broken sunlight off the bay, and often in your eyes. A few steps on the creaky, swollen, truncated boards, slippery and splintered with the scars of summer showers, propels you to the old boat house. The once glamourous and imposing structure, lay in the middle of the jettisoned dock. It’s roof, a green copper toned pigmentation is only a remnant of its prior majesty. A glance along the front walls and one becomes witness to times cruelty, as vandalized wooden boards shutter the windows and blockade the heavy steel doors. An orange rusted chain smothers the door handles together, although it can not help but allow a westward breeze to rattle the jambs in a muted clanger of life. Surrounding the antiquated rotunda of the boathouse is freshly painted pair of safety rails, running parallel to each other in a seemingly continuous pattern.
If one were to walk around the extinct structure and along the rails one would come across a set of wooden benches set every five feet apart and five feet away from the rail. The benches have been neglected far worse than the boathouse and are mostly in a state of disrepair. Engraved in each bench is a commemorative plaque with gold type set on black matted backgrounds. Each one a tribute and acknowledgment to a deceased local married couple. Much like the area itself, the plaques serve as a visual testament to each passerby of the martyred causalities of time.

The Boardwalk
The wooden slats fit unevenly together, plagued by erosion and over use. The wood, perhaps procured from some weaker perennial plant, such as pine or birch, whose weak constitution is evident upon close inspection of the boards. Each solitary board is laden with wayward splinters thats reforms the board into an obtuse rectangle. Like scratches on a prison wall, each splinter acts as a calendar on the wood, pulled back to represent year upon year of abuse. Shards of metal nails, perhaps iron, pierce each slat four times on the far ends of the boards, horizontally spread two feet apart and vertical separated by four inches. Remnants of white paint is sparse but sprinkled along the ends of the board, once used to illuminate and direct pedestrians along the stretch of land. The boards are joined together through a simple angular pattern which gives one the illusion of an arrow, much like the tip of a “one way” street sign. Some gouged out portions of wood now house small pools of water and refuse. The merger of waste and resource are both an annoyance and nourishment to the local wildlife, among which include insects and birds. One can hear the current tensile strength in the boards with each step. The rather stable boards expel a subtle creak, similar to the friction of bone and sinew one hears during an early morning stretch. The weaker of the boards groan with exhaustion as it braces the burdening weight above, shuttering in horror as fears of fracture channel through it’s consciousness. Like a deep breath trapped inside empty lungs, and exhaled with relief as the weight above moves on without damage.