Now comes the silvery phosphorescent trail that
follows in the wake of departing steamships
and we imagine what next port of call may
be their Temporary home?
My Mother’s passing took this same shape
as I envisioned her voyage under
ancient constellations, guiding her to a
port without a compass to assure her
of a true direction.
I waved goodbye from a wooden pier that
offered the only support I could trust
and then, she became just a dot on my
squinting horizon, while I waited to know how
and where I might connect with her again?
Unexpected tears slipped down winter cheeks
and fell between the planking… then joined the
cobalt ocean just below. And I looked back to where
the dot had been to find it was replaced during
my distraction by a single star.
And, like the steamship’s wake, my Mother
left a dancing neon foam behind that curled
upward slightly as each wave rippled away
from the departing vessel… and I stood comforted by
the perfect scent of her perfume that was left behind.
P. Faith Peters, Portland
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