After years of uncertainty,
there is, at least, certainty of location.
After years of never knowing where
we might settle,
there’s something about this ordinary—
birds on the ferry & sprawling highway
running & rising to meet us from the north
—that soothes this seclusion.
The ferry churns water & docks.
We drive from the wake.
The house offers its quiet & its mercy
as the air melts our eyes with sea-spray.
It’s a rental, old & frayed
& Mom has already started drilling holes in the wall.
She’s filling it with lost sounds:
framed pictures of her children laughing,
foreign places bustling with footsteps,
Impressionist paintings of chattering cafés.
& there’s the sight
of the ferry floating to Port Townsend to consider
of Mom leaning against the kitchen counter
because despite her best efforts
this is not home.