I could tell they were father and son, the air between them, slack as though they hardly noticed one another. The father sanded the gunwales, the boy coiled the lines. And I admired them there, each to his task in the quiet of the long familiar. The sawdust coated the father’s arms like dusk coats grass in a field. The boy worked next on the oarlocks polishing the brass until it gleamed as though he could harness the sun. Who cares what they were thinking, lucky in their lives that the spin of the genetic wheel slowed twice to a stop and landed each of them here. Copyright © 2015 by Sally Bliumis-Dunn. Used with permission of the author. |
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