The Little Boat

More thoughts on parenting

Monet’s “Sailboat”

In the workshop behind my house
I built a little boat, a model, really,
the width of a shoebox, the length
of my arm, and because I am not
naturally gifted with my hands,
it took years to build. I learned
to bend the wood without breaking
it, how glue and a vice will hold,
and how to remove splinters from
under my fingernails, the most sensitive
ache: slowly, with a paring knife. There
is almost always pain in building
something beautiful.

I was scared of losing the boat, yet wanted
to see it sail, so I walked the long path
behind the workshop, down through
the watching trees, the thick brush clinging
to me, all the way to the bottom
of the wooded valley, where
the river runs out
of the city, south, to larger rivers,
and bays, and the sea.

I set the boat first in a small inlet awash
with seashells, not knowing how they
got to the river. They crunched under my feet
as I crouched, lowered the little boat
and let it float there for a minute, bobbing,
waiting to see if it would take on water. It did
not. So, I took a deep breath and nudged it
with my foot, out into the current.
It was the gentlest of pushes, and I remained
on the bank, my feet dry.

My intent was to watch it sail away, yet after
a few minutes, I realized I was walking along
the riverbank, moving alongside
its progress, smiling to myself
as it navigated that first stretch
of white water. Then it caught a rock and stuck,
freed itself, turned, went under, came back up,
listing to the side. My boat was going
under.

I leapt from the bank, stormed through the water,
cutting my feet on rocks, falling
so that my knees dashed
against the bottom, all the way to the middle
of the river, where I plucked up the little boat
and struggled to shore. We sat there,
the two of us, for the rest
of the afternoon, watching the water
go past, the little boat
drying off, my feet cut, my knees bruised, all the colors
of the sun going down, until the tree branches
blended in with the night sky
and the cool air held us. The stars.
Oh, the stars.

And all the slow morning and the long next
day I sat there, too, still
waiting for who knows what. The little boat on its side,
now dry. Me, afraid of losing it, of watching it
sink. Until once again the sun began to set
behind the trees on the western bank, and I looked down
at the little boat, and I walked my bloody feet back
into the middle of the stream, my bruised knees
aching, to a place just beyond
the rapids, where the current was strong
and smooth. The water so cold it numbed my feet.
And I set the little boat down
in the water, and I watched it go.

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