Flute of a Shrill Wind

Scow clouds drift into white whispers.

Seagull cries pierce the motor’s whirring hum.

Our little rental boat cuts across the harbor.

An occasional warning blare of whale watch yachts.

Their wakes rock us.

Scent of sea spray tinged with coconut oil,

back sun-mantled, arms wrapped around

toddler daughter on my lap.

Four-year-old, ocean-green eyes alight with excitement,

snuggled next to his father in the stern.

Kids sun-screened, life-jacketed.

Wind picks up, ruffles the water’s surface,

lifts my baby’s broad-brimmed bonnet,

sails it into the brine.

My husband slows the engine, circles

floating cap until he can snatch it.

The children clap, laugh with delight.

I gaze back at the solid shore,

white steeple of the Meeting House and

towering Pilgrims Monument dwarfed to Lego-size, 

peninsula arm hugging the harbor receding.

Ahead, the bay opens into the teal grey

expanse of the Atlantic.

Above, a white-wisped beryl blue sky,

a postcard-perfect Cape Cod day.

Dread seeps into me. 

A vast sea.

My whole life 

cradled in this tiny vessel.

Provincetown Harbor

On an endless plain, clear to horizon skies,

my grandmother stands on the sallow grass

in her veiled felt hat and Sunday shoes.

I lean into her, wearing last year’s Easter topper

and my shiny First Communion shoes.

Among the few graves, in a square patch of prairie 

hemmed by gravel roads, rows of Osage orange,

fields beyond not yet greening with winter wheat,

no church or town in sight,

the flute of a shrill wind 

drops and rises

whips the edges of burial canopy

and cleric’s robes as he chants

the final Latin prayer.

The bugler in his gray green cap plays taps.

Hankie clutched in cotton gloves,

Grandma dabs her eyes. 

I step forward to watch

soldiers fold the flag draping my great uncle’s coffin. 

My grandmother leans down to whisper

You are stepping on the babies’ graves. 

Flushing, I look down-- 

see my black patents planted 

on one of three small, unmarked mounds

in the frozen grass.