Mother's Day from a boat - beyond the hallmark card propaganda

It’s Mother’s Day. A day of insanity in restaurants across North America, wherein family members attempt to show gratitude for a year's mothering in one rushed, cramped meal. 

A Hallmark greeting card commercial propaganda day that reminds us of our mothers.

Mother. That bittersweet word, packed with emotion and memory and love and pain and everything in between.

Today I sit on a boat, blue waters lapping at the hulls, sunshine bathing me from all sides, but my mother is a thousand miles away. My children are even further.

Can I hug my mother with these words on a cold stark blinking computer screen? How does one reach out without arms, to say all the things hidden in the folds of the soul that can only be shared through embrace?

Mom I love you beyond the confines of the word.

I love you with chubby little hands reaching up, into your smile. You are my world.

I love you behind the self absorbed gruff façade of teen angst.

I love you as I board a plane and move away from you forever. I watch the tears pour down your sweet face as you disappear behind airport security, and it tears me up knowing how reckless I am, but you love me so much.

I love you today, all grown up, seeing you clearly, for the well rounded woman you are - scars and weaknesses and immense strengths. I admire you and I am in awe of your countless sacrifices -s o many that were unappreciated and many more that will never be known. You are the wonder of ‘mother’.

And it all comes full circle in the most heart wrenching way. As I sit here without the warm skin to touch or the bantering voices of my little boys, it aches somewhere deeper than bones, in the soul of my soul. 

As mother’s we are literally a vessel, a teacher, a counselor for our children. They grow and the follow a path we can never imagine. We will never control or keep them except within us. We have the gift of memory, the dizzyingly gentle and vulnerable smell of our babies skin, the look in those huge trusting eyes. We cherish and grasp at the ineffable bond that allows us to sleep at night even when they are so far away. Even when they have gone forever, mother or child, they are never gone to us.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mother and every child but especially my own. I love you I love you I love you.

The land that time remembered

If you see Acklins and Crooked Island, just below the Tropic of Cancer in the south Bahamas from an aerial view, they are curled into a hug. Almost touching and highly interdependent. In fact, the water between the two islands is barely 3 feet deep – you could walk across! As Kendra, a wonderful local lady with ever smiling eyes explained to us, “we are a family island. That means everyone knows and helps each other. Even if you are not family, once you join us here, you are family. 

It seems a few Americans have done just that, building winter homes along the beaches and spending half their year here forever. They are welcomed and accepted. They might have to wait a week for fresh bread when the mail boat comes through, but I’m sure it’s a trade off that is worthwhile.

After a few blissful and quiet days in the calm and protected but uninhabited Lady Slipper Bay on Acklins Island, where we walked the sandy beaches, played bocci ball and had a big bonfire beach braai, we headed to Crooked Island, to see the famous old lighthouse. We got so much more than that.

We felt the hug. Venturing over the treacherous reefs that protect the residents of Landrail Point, we brought the dinghies into a clever man made little harbor. The first thing I noticed was the cheery paint jobs on all the buildings, from bold ocean turquoise to juicy orange. There was no garbage strewn around the roads, instead, tidy bins lined the bottom of each driveway. Conch shells decorated our path from house to house down the one main road. And then we met our first person. Waves, smiles and some banter started our little walk off so well. After that it only got better. Everyone we met came to say hello and offer us a bit of info about their town or their island. 

We found a well stocked little converted bungalow grocery painted bright green. They had everything – and after a couple weeks of nothing, we were literal ‘kids in a candy shop’. We chatted to the owner, “That was me out there in the fishing boat as you sailed in!” he explained. “We were catching snapper”. And indeed, we’d seen a boat. Small town this, and very industrious folk.

In the next shop come house, we had a ball trying on the elaborate church hats and chatting with the owner about her double life as an entrepreneur and a government postal worker. We bought some beautiful locally made t-shirts and headed to Gibson’s Lunchroom #2 – the only restaurant in the settlement, and famous for it’s hospitality and home style cooking. On the road we met Willy the owner and her brother Andy the local tour guide, who’s bus also doubles as a school bus gathering the kids from the few settlements to the one school. They discussed how they might find beers for our supper as Landrail is Seventh Day Adventist and alcohol is not readily available.

An hour later we sat at the long table in Gibson’s, a veritable feast in front of us – fresh snapper fritters then home fried chicken, fresh caught grouper, macaroni and cheese, fresh baked bread, green salad, and rich brown ‘peas an’ rice’. Kendra sat with us, sharing stories about her life on Crooked Island and abroad. Her cheeky, spindly legged little girl Roshay, in her Diva t-shirt warmed up to us too after she finished her supper.

We had cold beers in hand, courtesy of Andy who’d driven to another town to find them. And just when we thought the day couldn’t get much better in Landrail, Andy set up his magic trick. A private magic show to accompany dessert of cake and ice cream.  Andy had eggs balanced on little cups, on a heavy tray under which there stood two glasses of water. Then, wielding a clunky kitchen broom he jolted forward and with a crash the tray went flying and the eggs plopped safely into the cups, suspended unbroken in the water. Wow!!!! It was quick and violent and impressive.

Andy and his magic broom

But all good things must come to an end and we had to navigate the spiky, propeller shredding reefs back to our boats before darkness settled over us and this Crooked, wonderful little place. So with hugs all around and a few cool snapshots with Roshay, we bid them all farewell and set off, back to our ocean homes.

Kendra and her winning smile

Two cool divas!

The night that followed, being tossed about in a huge surf was worth the visit to this out, out island which was home to no more than 300 people – a place that proved you can have a thriving and beautiful community in seemingly the middle of nowhere.

Visiting the crumbling lighthouse the next morning, a regal testament to times gone by, was merely the icing on this cake of a visit. Thank you Crooked Island!

What a difference a day makes!

Day 2 Bahamas: his beady little eye, a cold heartless button on his huge pale head, eyed us warily only a few feet away. His fin slapping our back ladder as he greedily tugged at our offering – a two foot barracuda caught earlier by our new master fisherman, junior captain Devon. I shrieked and scuttled back and forth on deck, Devon the brave on the bottom of the sugar scoop with the Go Pro camera on a short stick under water, and John nervously shooting stills from a safer distance.

This was the climax of a day where nature dazzled and amazed and scared us silly. A 6 foot lemon shark appeared in the crystal clear water, circling the bait of lifeless flesh we’d hung only moments before, a trail of fish blood guaranteeing shark attraction from up to five miles away.

After 12 minutes which stretched to near an hour in our minds, adrenaline pumping, he broke free with his prize and we rushed inside to view the footage. It is nothing short of amazing. Is this my life?! Filming sharks from within an arm’s length?

Apparently my life in the Bahamas also includes nearly sailing over a family of whales circling a mother giving birth, a huge cloud of brown-red blood staining the indigo ocean. Our crew bounced about pointing and shouting and imagining the carnage that might have been, had we sailed even a foot closer. A whale’s tail could throw our rudder aside, damage our hull, crumple Shiloh like a paper toy. But instead we were privy to this ever so private moment of the most regal creature. Just feet away.

But I should have known that the day would be extraordinary when it began with the send off of a huge group of playful dolphins as we left Mayaguana. It was the first time we’d seen so many, who played so long around our hulls. And later en route, it was the first time we’d caught a fish, reeling it in with glee and nerves pulsing,  jumping back as it surfaced – a barracuda with piercing black eyes and sharp pointed teeth. Then drowning the poor thing in cheap overproof rum instead of carefuling using a syringe into it’s gills as we’d heard was customary. It was the first time we’d come so close to whales, and a first ever to see them calving. It was definitely the first time we’d baited a shark and watched as it ravaged and twisted about literally on our back step.

The Bahamas is assaulting me with contradictions, from Mayaguana to West Playa Cay. My senses are alive and I’m now weary of showering off the back step. We have new reefs to explore here and maybe another fish to catch! There are countless miles of white sand beach here to cover…. and this is only stop #2 of near 1000 islands. Bahamas – bring it on!

Stale bread and sewage - welcome to the Bahamas?

The Bahamas tourism board, probably based in Florida, has done a stellar job over the years. Bahamas has long been touted as the ultimate sea, surf, and sun destination. And it may very well be that. Or parts of it might be. It encompasses, after all, over 400 miles of nearly a thousand tiny islands.

Back when our sailing dream was in the works, we talked of the places we fantasized about visiting and Bahamas was right at the top of that list. Once we moved aboard the boat and chatted with seasoned cruisers, the dream only intensified. “The Bahamas is gorgeous!” they said.  “Amazing. A must see.” “You will LOVE it!” and so on…  So, it has grown over the past 10 years into a mecca destination of sorts in our minds. The mighty and ethereal Bahamas.

We arrived yesterday, after some rough and some equally blissful days on the journey from Puerto Rico.

Yippee! We’ve arrived! Only it wasn’t like that. At all.

Mayaguana – not a funny Spanish name for marijuana, but a 26 mile long, marsh-like,  semi-inhabited outlet, served as our port of entry. Wow. I should have read that one important caption in our cruising guide that claims, had this island not been located where it is, precisely between two other well traveled places, it would largely remain unvisited.

And well, apart from the blue, blue waters out in Abraham’s Bay, I’d have to agree.

My first impression of the Bahamas is of a dusty forgotten semblance of a village, sewage seeping slowly along beside us, penetrating nostrils and flipping stomachs, as we walked the lonely mile from the jetty into the unpaved 4 building main road. Our welcome at the government buildings, the remnants of a national flag, long gone threadbare and faded by the sun, looked more like a giant flapping spider’s web than a proud symbol of the country.

We stumbled into the tiny kiosk marked Post Office, dripping with sweat and the town’s white dust clinging to us, it was difficult to adjust our eyes. Inside, dark with 1970’s wood paneling and dim lighting, we were met with a tinted glass wall of window, smudged with the fingerprints of the town’s few, desperately sending out penned letters and awaiting money orders from family abroad. The only new things, three proud male faces, framed and perched way above our heads, peering down at us, the main government officials who no doubt live elsewhere.

A voice mumbled from within, and we explained our mission. Piles of books came through the tiny opening, all in triplicate, the government paperwork. Our three boat crews, cramped and stifled in the depressing little space, spilled out onto the road, while the few of us stayed to print all of our details, over and over, along the narrow lip of a counter top. An hour passed as papers were shoved, in and out through the tiny hole. A printer in the back, chugged a painfully slow, clunk and shiver as it prepped our documents, island time.

Eventually, in the midst of the molasses slow processes, the official came out through the wooden door and stood among us. She held a paper. It was dirty and creased and had signatures with amounts of money scrawled down. She explained her daughter was headed to Atlanta, this was her first journey, could we donate. And there it was. We pooled a few dollars despite our surprise, and she took it gratefully, disappearing then, back into her grotto.

My eyes adjusted. The tinted glass began to reveal this, the main and only government office on Mayaguana. One small room, dusty papers piled high in every corner, mismatched desk and chair, lost under the weight of a waste of unfiled documentation. Papers. Shelves overflowing with papers, some on the floor, kicked aside and molded into the background, part of the dismal scene, forever. Days and months of styrofoam coffee cups and soup bowls peered out, partly lost under the grubby mounds.

Close to 2 hours passed before I saw daylight again, my pocket $300 lighter, for having paid into this little hovel, our cruising permit.

We went in search of bread, as cruisers do, having been far from grocery stores for days. The town consisted of 4 dirt roads, about 20 structures (homes?), most in varying states of disrepair. Boards roughly nailed where windows would be. Garbage, cans, bottles, diapers, and more paper lined our pathway. We passed a few houses with hand painted ‘convenience store’ scrawled on the walls, but all were conveniently shut. The sun beat down, the wind abandoned us in this place, a shiny, optimistic crowd of sailors, in a sad, forsaken piece of land. We saw a few young men, sitting in a dilapidated gazebo, their eyes tired, empty. They waved limply.

We finally found a friendly lady with a shop (the only other person we actually saw), who opened it for us kindly, removing the padlock and swinging aside the creaking door to reveal a rudimentary, dusty and windowless chamber of largely empty  wooden shelves. She explained that the only supplies on the island came weekly on a mail boat. Obviously it was close to the end of the week. Loaves of bread were roughly shoved into a coke fridge, on the top shelf. Each was slightly frozen and completely stale. We decided bread for toast would do and nodded that we’d take it. $6.

$6 for stale bread?! How do the locals here afford that? There is no industry, about 3 jobs, fishing…. Pretty much nothing. So the answer is, they don’t. That’s why it was stale. Mayaguana is stale. The overwhelming question sat on our shoulders as we kicked up dust and inhaled the sewage on the way back to the jetty – why would anyone live here?

Apparently there are less than 300 people on the island, divided into 3 settlements. Less than 75 in this place, though we never saw more than 10. No goats or chickens or children playing in the road. Apparently there is a highschool which surprised me. If I was a teenager I’d stow away on that mail boat and never look back.

My cruiser’s guide tells me that Mayaguana was once part of the United States missile tracking network. The Americans built an 11,000 foot long runway and a huge concrete dock – both are slowly decaying. 

Apparently there are also 4 aircraft grounded here, seized from drug runners. So maybe at one time Mayaguana was alive, with shady US government projects and cocaine traffickers. But there is no sign of life here anymore. Except for the garbage. Oh, and the sewage.

So, we’re heading onward and upward today. Away from this neglected outpost to the parts of the Bahamas that the brochures boast about. But I will remember Mayaguana.

And just as I’m wondering whether this must be Bahamas’ dirty little secret or a glimpse of the reality behind the brochures, a huge family of dolphins surrounds our flotilla and escorts us away, jumping and diving and frolicking and begging us to keep judgements at bay.

Seven Days at Sea

In households around the western world, eggs were painted in pastels and hidden, cheap chocolate animals in foil were unwrapped and stuffed into the mouths of babes, and the great bunny’s name was evoked. In churches globally, the sermons were doled out, same as last year and the year before…  the institution of Easter was being observed.

Yet we missed it. We were on this planet in an entirely different realm for the past week. Land and society and all it’s rules and celebrations, comforts and conveniences were a distant memory. Left on a shore as we pulled out of the bay for our longest ocean passage to date.

Day 1: Between the squalls that pile up in the sky in so many shades of black and grey and cobalt, there are the other colours. We are between sky and ocean, and the colours are everything. Periwinkle, robin’s egg blue, muted royal blue, true turquoise, ice mint, and indigo sea below. Sunset splashes the sky with peach and fuschia and finally a rich purple before dipping us all into complete darkness.

Day 2: I’ve watched the sunrise on an indigo abyss. Our crew is getting into the groove of a moving home, sleeping, sitting watch, sleeping, sitting watch… our huge rainbow spinnaker is all puffed up, proudly pulling us along. It’s midday and we’re all awake and taking it in. The ocean lies around us, undulating and powerful, and then it happened. Three sets of eyes behold the beauty of a whale, breaching. Her massive body completely airborne. A mammoth ballet. It was a secret viewing, one of nature’s gifts. My heart sang. Sailing is amazing and this is why. 

Day 4: I’m bracing myself aboard, the thrashing seas lifting and dropping Shiloh, though her chain and anchor somehow manage to keep us in one place, against the 30 knot gale that has blown incessantly since we arrived at the first sight of land, this tiny desolate mound of rock and sand, two days ago. I pick at the crusty weeping salt scars that cover the boat and squint over at the little island, so close yet so far away. My legs long to walk, to stretch, to feel that warm sand but we cannot get into the dinghy in the waves, and ashore the surf is building and crashing violently. No chance. Haven’t been able to cook in days, each step aboard is an exercise in balance and strategic grabbing of walls and surfaces… yet still, I am bruised. It’s been rough. It’s still rough. We settle down to watch a movie as the ferocious elements bash us from all angles…

Day 5: Trudging through deep soft sand, my legs ache and burn and it’s a sweet pain. Awoke in the morning to a glass surface. Mother nature’s anger is gone and in it’s place a breathtaking beauty and an invitation to the beach.

Our flotilla, like insects in a jar in the grubby hands of a curious child, we’d been plucked up and tossed around for days, falling about each other in a tiny container, and then we were dumped out on land. We scattered. Running, kicking, exploring our new surroundings and spreading out. Bliss.

We walked most of the island that day. Dodging little cacti, picking up shells, kicking up the sad signs of civilization – plastic bottles and single shoes, washed ashore, leaving their stories with far off people. We climbed the hill and listened to the fish eagle’s sermon atop his broken lighthouse perch. 

Day 7: We are in a 65 mile wide shallow swimming pool. It is flat and as clear as the air, with a turquoise hue. We sailed the deep channel across to tiny Fish Cay at the edge of the main Caicos bank of the Turks & Caicos. After one night we decided to set off into the middle of the shallows and drop anchor. The closest land is at least 20 miles away but the water below us, no deeper than the deep end of a suburban pool. It glistens and shines under the sun. And we are awoken by dolphins. This is as close as our world can get to perfection. Beauty. The smile becomes internal. You glow. You haven’t seen other people or a building or a wifi signal for a week. And it doesn’t matter. It is nothing. 

And we begin the last leg of this passage – we head toward relative civilization, toward immigration formalities and stores and restaurants and bars and other people. To the Internet. But not before we soak in these last few hours on the bow of the boat. Legs swinging over the edge, sun on our shoulders, Shiloh’s hulls cutting through the serenity. Orange starfish dotting the vast sandy bottom, sting ray, nurse shark, all greeting us on this surreal trip.

With extreme caution we use the age old method of eyeball navigation through the coral bommies and patches of reef, and make our way into Southside Marina anchorage. Our depth metre reads zero and we are practically aground it’s so shallow. But now we must turn to earthly concerns. This part of the journey is over.

On shore, the immigration and customs officers are called and the flotilla crews are buried in ipads and laptops. We complete check-in around a picnic table in the gazebo and bid farewell to the officers, who’ve recommended tomorrow’s fish fry and a visit to Boogaloo’s while we’re here. In the evening there is a cruiser potluck and so it begins - the overly friendly interaction characteristic of sailors who know the other side, the world out there with no one else. No passports or paperwork, no crowded malls or Google references. A world of wind and waves, a world without Easter.

‘No-see-ums’ – the Bane of the Beach Braai (barbeque)

Caribbean beaches, pristine white sand framed by regal swaying palms and shallow turquoise waters, welcome sailors daily, and provide the backdrop for engine repair and general boat maintenance.

On many occasions though, boat work abandoned, spanners and hammers and grimy rags tossed aside, cruisers are enticed to drop their dinghies and head toward that beckoning shore. Promises of warm sand through the toes and wading in the tepid blue waters make the prospect irresistible. But there is an enemy lurking. A vicious and relentless monster – but you won’t see ‘um!

Our little flotilla of sailboats, mostly South African cruisers arrived in Tank Bay, Vieques the other day, after quite a bashing sail in high seas from mainland Puerto Rico. One of the boats is waiting on a boat part to be delivered (surprise surprise!) so we have a week to bide time – so why not visit all of Vieques’ beaches?!

After we’d settled and had a swim it was decided – we’d have a beach braai! Everyone busied themselves thawing sausages and chops, packing a lovely little picnic and putting the rum and cokes on ice.

The men, chests puffed up in anticipation of the age old testosterone building ritual of fire making. They rushed to the beach, secured the dinghies and went about searching for suitable firewood, and a protected spot for the fire pit, out of the wind.

One by one all the dinghies were on the beach and the evening was looking promising. What could be better than hanging with good friends on a post card pretty beach, cocktail in hand, meat on the fire.

But then, as quickly as if they’d known, there was the total onslaught. A take over to rival any rebel army. It was the 'no-see-ums' , affectionately known by scientists as ceratopogonidae.

We all began to jump and scratch and yelp uncontrollably. It was a spectacle of limbs flailing, rum splashing, cocktails tossed aside for the protection of ‘Off’. Cans were sprayed wildly as the people bounced around, but it was no use, the little invisible vermin were immune to chemical sprays and slaps and pleadings to cease. They ignored swearing and were not remotely bothered by smoke as we formed a tight cluster there, hoping it would flush them away. Instead, there we were a huddled mass of miserable bitten sods, eyes watering from chemical sprays and smoke fumes, still smacking and slapping ourselves silly.

Getting settled - already one friend is covering her head from incessant bites

And another on the right is shaking out her hair

The last photo taken - itching in full effect - Off bottle empty. Soon, mass exodus!

A rumour began, that they would all go away and this hell would end, as soon as the sun went down. So we braved on, we tried to withstand the attack in hopes of an end in sight. It was a miracle we lasted over an hour in the midst of the invisible war. The beach terrorists showed no mercy though. The sun dropped as it does, beyond the edge of the world but we were still under attack. The troops suddenly cracked. We could stand it no longer. Once the meat was cooked, it was thrown onto paper plates, stuffed into sandy bags, and the crowds made a mad dash for the water and for the safety of our respective boats.

We arrived back out of breath, as if we’d outrun a frightful enemy. I sat on the sugar scoop (back step) of Shiloh, still rubbing my scalp where they’d managed to burrow and bite, causing a lingering itch and eventually I poured myself over the side into the cool and welcoming water.

For some reason, these tiny no-see-ums are limited to one area of attack. They can’t get to us over the couple hundred meters of sea across the bay. It is the one stroke of luck we have. One thing the terrorists cannot penetrate.

I sighed a huge sigh of relief as I climbed out of the water and peered over at the moonlit beach. So, this is why we have ‘sun downers’ on our boats in these beautiful bays. It’s what preserves our image of such wonderful places. If we had to spend even one more evening on a beach, I think we’d all give up sailing completely.

The moments we never forget

Woke up this morning warmed by the sun and lulled by the waves below us. Wasn't in any hurry to wake. But the morning morphed along into eggs and beans and cleaning and then the computer called to me. I opened my old blog and felt the pull. It was that happy melancholy of motherhood. The empty nest. Missing my boy. And I read this old blog post. And shed a few bitter sweet tears.

Had to share:

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Moments like this

Blurry, the park across the street melts in my view and slips down in huge heavy tears onto my t-shirt. Five minutes before, I was posing for photos, thumbs up, with my boy. Our last breakfast at a cheesy local diner, I sipped a giant diet Coke and looked around at what would be his new neighborhood. I was bursting with joy and pride. I poked and tickled him and felt the vicariousness of his new exciting life.



Soft, now my knees like marshmallows, the sidewalk so hard below me, I know I will drop, crashing like the 23 story building looming behind me. I sway in the earthquake of emotion.

Strong, the bond as he holds me, his mom, towering over my weakness. Child becomes parent, small becomes big, life shifts irrevocably. I give in to the abyss of sadness that bubbles up. I’m really losing my baby.

Common, this rituals plays itself out in dorm rooms and concrete school hallways across the continent today. But mine is different, I convince myself, mine is special, mine is my whole life that has led up to this moment! No one can possibly understand. No mother has felt this crushing pride of loss.

Buried, deep in the smell of his cotton t-shirt, I cannot face the world or the truth. I have grown up with this man, this boy, this child of mine.

Floating above myself now, I see us in the airport in Ghana, 1998. My little guy and I, after a year of volunteering, are headed home to Canada for Christmas. He is 6 years old. We are so excited and anxious to get home to the family, it’s palpable. Only, as we stand at the immigration desk, there is hesitation and the officer is upset. Something is wrong. He calls a superior and ushers us aside. My boy looks up at me with those huge innocent eyes. He whispers,

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

I shrug and squeeze his hand as they lead us into a small windowless room. We have apparently overstayed our visa and there is a massive fine to pay. We are in trouble. I don’t have the money, I am at a loss as to how this happened, as our passports are held with the NGO I am working for. We are not going to make our plane. As the minutes tick by and we sit alone and silent in the pitiful room, my heart sinks. Tears stream down my face. My boy jumps up from the chair and leaps forward. He touches my cheeks gently, wiping my tears

“Mom, don’t cry. Everything is going to be ok. It will work out. We’ll be ok. Ok?”

And it was. I squeezed him so close. My heart nearly burst.
Something was arranged and we made our plane, running, hand in hand down the runway, out of breath, we boarded the plane. Everyone was annoyed at the delay. We looked at each other with a knowing… it is the bond. We’d been through another of life’s experiences together.

Spinning, I’m jolted back to now - the world around us circles, and the moment threatens to pass. Time taps my shoulder, we will have to leave. My tears will have to be dammed.

He pulls away,

“C’mon Mom, you’re gonna make me cry.”

Which only make my tears come harder. And I’ve done it. He breaks. His strong face, cracks and our bond is exposed. Emotion all over his face. It’s sealed forever.



Our song plays in my head, the guitar he strums to me in the kitchen on Saturday afternoons back home, Bon Iver:

“I am my mother's only one,

It's enough…

I wear my garment so it shows.

Now you know.

Only love is all maroon,

Gluey feathers on a flume

Sky is womb and she's the moon.

I am my mother on the wall, with us all

I move in water, shore to shore;

Nothing's more.

Only love is all maroon

Gluey feathers on a flume

Sky is womb and she's the moon…

Gazing, incredulous, from behind he grows smaller as he skips away into the huge building that eats him up. The car carries me limp, further and further way. In the distance, the song still serenades me. My boy has grown up and the world has him now.