18 Nov Mome, By Kaiya Mongrain
The light, blinding and blue,
Ancestral nets reeking of brine and fish,
Lapping waves bouncing against the bow,
The chugging, stalling of the ancient Johnson that never gave up,
Skin covered in slime,
Shaking and cold,
I had fallen underneath the churning waves over the side of the boat.
Fascinated by the disappearing snowflakes into the rippling undertow,
Sucked under like how pike gulp down unaware ducklings,
Only I had bobbed back up with a gasp for breath into icy air,
I let out a cry.
A voice called for me.
I was plucked by the back of my life jacket into safety in one swoop of a woolen wing.
And my nose filled with the smell of tobacco and sweat,
Mutterings in the old tongue were gentle but reprimanding,
My arms jerked and trembled in response.
Into outstretched arms with hair slicked to my face like leeches,
Quickly tucked under the multiple plaid layers protected and sheltered from hissing sprays of water,
Nestled and hidden like a mother hen hoarding her eggs with golden yolks inside.
A kiss on the head and tightening of a fierce grip.
Held close and swaddled, I lay still.
The heat seeps into my skin and warmth pools in my bones and into my marrow.
My eyelids fall, heavy and drooping.
The howling of the wind and the rocking of the boat,
Drowned out by the rhythmic thumping against my ear.
I no longer need to wail.