Rowing For Home

Early morning my grandfather would

disappear into darkness

oars in locks

wooden boat scraping the salted

rocks as he made his way into the

Atlantic alongside old Plymouth

(as did some of his Pilgrim forefathers & mothers)

Rocking upon waves

baiting hooks for flounder, deep in the still

shady ocean, that

dark mystery holding plenty of surprises,

maybe a gift.

I spied on him from our cottage

attic which looks out over

wooden stairs,

leading downward to a

rocky seashore covered with

the flickering sunrise,

orange and gold,

as old Sol awoke.

Before breakfast the sound of oars and rusted locks

pulsing against a wooden boat

Sounded the news, “Grandpa’s back.”

I’d run to the cliffs overlooking the shore

alongside the wooden stairs

waving, and watching him drag his

boat across the sand,

reaching in and pulling a string of

flatfish all waiting to be cleaned,

cooked, and served for breakfast.

I never did fish in the Atlantic or own a

wooden rowboat. But I do rise early before the sunrise!

I go to an ocean of sorts, one old Freud

reminded us about, and in that ocean there is deep darkness

and mystery, sometimes there’s a gift-

sometimes the whale from the rugged depths surfaces

changing lives, revealing something of itself to a

fortunate observer who, notwithstanding the beauty, holds

this event close. So my boat is not wooden,

but I float on a sea of pages, ideas, relationships,

and beauty. Sometimes I make my way in that sea with memory,

and soft reflections. A few days my grandson even

hears me rowing for home, coming back

from a morning’s journey.

May 4, 2011