Quay

Quay · Mary Swander The boat is waiting far out in the harbor. There is a man on board, leaning over the railing, a woman standing on the dock, her black shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her head, her red petticoat showing just beneath her knees. She is not weeping. She is not even waving. Her small white handkerchief is tucked into her sleeve. She does not wait to watch the mast disappear into the sea. She does not huddle together with the other women like the swans trying to squeeze the first bit of morning heat from the rocks on the shore. She turns and walks on past the market where the pig's knuckles and black and white puddings are packed in ice, and the fish scales glow purple as small coals. There she stops and blows on her hands. She looks back. Along the bay she sees horses running wild among the cattle, boys in blue shirts THEMISSOURIREVIEW · 27 playing with a ball along the sand. A dog trots across the horizon. The daffodils and whin bush are just flowering. There is the smell of peat burning, blackening the chimneys. The grass is very green. Galway, Ireland 28 · The Missouri Review Mary Swander ...