The Voyager
by Holly Day
The
tiny boat floats down the river, bobbing inconsequential
in
the pull of the tide. Its little paper sail flutters in the thin breeze
a
piece of folded newspaper advertising newborn collie puppies for sale on one
side
a
half-sheet of recent obituaries on the other. I can almost see
my
grandmother’s small, black-and-white photograph from the shore
where
I stand, my tiny daughter’s warm hand in mine
watching
our little boat as it’s swept away, perhaps
as
far as the ocean. My daughter chatters excitedly
about
the exotic places our boat might see, far-away places
my
grandmother never got to visit, but talked of often.
I
imagine it’s her on the boat, and not just her picture
a
thin, pale woman, mouth set permanently in a thin, determined line
leaning
over the railing of a real ship, eyes forever
fixed
on the delights of the horizon.
