Drifting Down The River

I witnessed her fall apart one summer morning –
Underneath our family tree.

I could feel the presence of my grandfather gazing out over the tangerine horizon.

He was everywhere.

But, there are sad mornings –
Much like today,
When the wind howls along with my weeping mother.

Her only strength was the delightfully irreverent sense of humor she had gotten from her father.

She and I spent our afternoon on a  boat,
And rowed past an eye-patch wearing toothless man taking spontaneous swigs of gin from an iron flask,
Exposing dirt underneath his fingernails.

The stranger smiled, then screamed “Hallelujah!” to the heavens,
Amusing my mother.

I giggled as if the feather sticking out of his hat was tickling the bottom of my foot –
And caught a glimpse of my mother gazing at the clouds,
Wondering about the man who saved her childhood,
And the man who inadvertently saved mine.

I continued to row without her help.

Alone,
I felt –
Together with my mother.

I looked back, and the inebriated eye-patch wearing toothless stranger was gone.

From a distance I could hear:

Dream darling,
Dream.
Drink darling,
Drink.
Drunken daylight dreams.
Dying –
Drowning darling.
Drifting down the river.