— Robin Cedar
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.
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