Lo Celeste Riddell
Bowling Green State University
I am submerged in the Then,
the all-consuming memory
of my father’s hands, gray
and bony, struggling to grasp
the orange cap of a soda bottle–
trying to twist and missing,
trying and missing, then twisting
on three – he is no old man
but now his fingers are confused
and wandering across the ferry seat
to me, where my hand is already open
to take on the role of bottle opener
or hand holder
my stranger, this gray man
with sunken eyes and thinning brow
turns to watch the water pass
cold and blue outside
not speaking what he needs
or what he wants from me
but I know he knows
it’s all ending soon
this is where I stay, frozen,
soul parted from body, always sitting
on that ferry with the unfamiliar man
ferry anchor ported in my chest
holding me in place to caretake
if only in my mind, forever
until he withers
and I can again rejoin the living