A Tide like Grace

I’ve soaked up my portion of sorrow.But then who hasn’t? Mine can’t comparewith some, I know. Take Molly, not even a grown-up,driving her dad’s ragtop Olds,reduced for life to muteness and wheelchairswhen that truck ran a light. We all could name such loss.

Foolhardy, I kayaked acrosswide water today, and out on that bay,I found welter, confusion—endless salt waves racingfrom both north and south and elsewherebecause of two big ferryboats’ wakes.It was hard to imagine where I’d do best to steer.

No matter. I’m still here.For some reason, I dwelt on my melancholyover absences as I paddled—brother, parents,schoolmates, friends, and mentors—though I knew my pain paled next to a Molly’s.I even thought of a long-gone horse I yet grieve for:

her four hooves thrust toward the rafters,my pony mare, Miss Prim, all bloatedfrom deadly nightshade. My thoughts ran from grand to petty,you see, as I rode those swells.I should have been focused on where I floated,though my course for the most part seemed beyond my control,

as it always has. Truth to tell,it was a tide, like grace, that brought me to shore,where I spoke aloud, in wonderment: I’m here.