I once read a story about these two boys who got lost on the Atlantic ocean. One lied to the mother that they were going fishing using the boat his grandfather had left him. They instead attempted to sail across the Atlantic. Their boat was later discovered near the Bermuda but the boys were never seen again.
I can’t remember if it was a true story or in a book.
I think about them sometimes.
This is the sum of my thoughts about them…
I can’t remember the siren’s call or if there had been one.
The question that jumped under my forced calm demeanour, “Why sit on a boat waiting for a fish to fall victim to my patience when there’s my own adventure calling?”
I guess adventure was my hook
Was it frail bones that tethered grandfather to that boat, looking out at still waters?
My shallow plan, an insult to his memory, conjured a banshee storm that upset the water.
Now I’m farther than I have ever wanted to be
Is dying crossing a line?
I have aged beyond the places they would have found me
I know better now, motionless in my limbs staring at stars that have since ceased to twinkle
Water makes a quick stroll through me, faster than I crossed that river
Regret swirls in my cold skin
As Poseidon looks around for the spark of spirit that pushed me off shore
I can’t remember what it feels to be warm
Perhaps grandfather knew this would be my end
His time spent creating a memory for me to hold onto when I arrived at my demise
I imagine his hook pulling me back home
Delighted to have me back
I’m back to the place where time stopped for the both of us
Was it frail bones that tethered grandfather to that boat, looking out at still waters?