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Show WORDS SPOKEiJ, WORDS UNSPOKEil I. Sheepshead Bay, 1962 The air was filled with the scent of fish and salt and oil. And at the open end of the harbor, where once you'd pointed out a burned-out hull nearly buried by water, I watched a blurred outline of decklights travelling silently in from the sea. As we sat among the rotting pilings of a oier, slapping at insects we could hear but couldn't see, you patiently offered names for everything nearby. Looking up at a ship's rigging, so intricate, under clustered stars, I listened to every word you said that night-halyard, brace, clue-line-- terms I swore I'd never forget. Later, driving home in the old, blue Studebaker, while you thought I slept, I quietly spoke them over and over again. II. South Shore Hospital The night you left, there was no rain, no snow, no sign of troubled weather-only clear, moonless sky. I watched by my bedroom window until the final glow of tail-lights fell below some distant mound and, even then, waited, certain that the blindness and pain would soon end. For nearly a year, I walked with Mother to the Tuesday novenas. (stanza break) |
