Casting off the lines.
Fog, water, light.
The phantom of the pier.
Voices magnified,
standing still.
My father gathering up
the ropes.
Smell of canvas sails,
fish.
I huddle cold
by the center board,
listen to the wash of water
on the rocks,
the sides of the boat.
I will not forget this,
ever,
my child says.
We have not forgotten, I reply.
Our father is going to set
us free.
He pushes on the pier
with his leg,
and drops in the boat.
I feel the love of his excitement.
We will sail and fish.
I watch the shore recede.
My father rolls a cigarette
and lifts a sail.
Life eddies away.
Would he mind if I touch
his face?
I will not always be alive.
I peer out the window
above these words.
Goodby, I say.
As I huddle by the keel.