Written April 6, 2017
We never went on one together.
Passengers start to fill rows,
setting down backpacks at their feet.
Listen to the engine hum for an hour
as we push from the mainland
to the horizon above Georgia Strait.
I could read theme park brochures,
or look at the gift shop souvenirs.
Moccasins. Coffee mugs. Toffees.
With a mind that wants to go to an island,
I moor a small boat in Active Pass,
climb the dock steps and follow a path
through firs round a yard to a cottage.
Inside there’s a library with a Boston fern
and a cat sunbathed on a walnut chair.
But really I’m typing on a futon. I’m tired from work.
West End traffic. Lineups.
Rain that soaks the top of my boots.
I’m missing our mornings. Missing our plans.
And there are two kittens sleeping beside me,
each with a mind that wants to go where I go.
by Wendy Stewart