You won’t remember how you stood your nightly watch. Out across the dark water. Your fingers praying the rosary beads, its opals black as fish-eyes. Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy upon all Seafarers. Even now, I can recall the squall battering the windows, like moths hitting the light. And me watching you, watching for his boat to come in. The litany of the radio marking our watch. Hebrides: South-westerly gale force 8, becoming cyclonic.
You won’t remember when the morning light broke across the bay. How the horizon remained vast and empty. The beads jittering in your hands. Even now, I can feel the sodden sand beneath my feet, my fingers finding what the storm washed up; bladderwrack, cracked black wood. Relics of my daddy’s boat. I cast them back, as an offering. Eternal rest grant unto him, Star of the Sea.
You won’t remember how today, I comb your hair, place your rosary into your hands. Arthritic now, their praying done. You won’t remember how I turn the radio on, bring it close to your bed. I keep my watch, as just for a moment, quicksilver darts through your eyes. Hebrides; Slight sea state, becoming moderate later. Fair.
Author: Fiona Dignan started writing during lockdown to cope with the chaos of home-schooling four children. Last year, she won The London Society Poetry Prize and The Plaza Prize for Sudden Fiction. She was a finalist in the LISP poetry competition and is Puschcart Prize Nominated.
Powerful. Nicely done!