Though the high, impatient whine
Of the eager aluminum beast
Drowns out the sense of voices around me
A few youthful pitches pierce the cloud
Nestled about my head.
She recalls it like a fisherman’s tale:
He was standing on a deck
They faced the perfect storm
When he turned and walked away
This was the last she saw her father.
The younger one beside her muses on
The deck and a personal fear of water
But I linger wondering on the design of her story’s perfect storm
Were the clouds looming grey, a reminder of our smallness
Or did she see the sun, hallmarking its light with her pain?
Were the clouds we were about to be lifted to
A reminder of bittersweet days
Or blanket for the memory
Of the man that left his daughter
Watching the sea under the sun?