Pia Aliperti

Because it was so dark in the little room, the windows were painted shut, the salt air eroded the wooden beams, we tried to imagine the beginning of things. Gideon was passed out on the couch, the latest addition to the row of sea shacks that began with my father, our mother decided. He was already thin and thirsty when he returned home after a 30 days sales week to selfish children and separate bedrooms. No longer could he entertain illusions of the world-weary traveler, of his wife weaving her life with his on a loom. My grandmother who has not had a drink in 20 years and can remember said it was her great-grandfather who knew depression is the Gulf of Mexico and gulped like a drowning fish. A distant relative confessed she wept at the herring flopping on the deck, but what does it matter if she laughed or cried? Maybe the crew sang, Oh I am young. Maybe they sang, Oh I am young and heartless. What of the ships that sailed on salt and tonic water, the exquisite quilt that fell apart in the middle of the night, or the threads that parted violently with a knife? Seagulls already jump at the sight of pale flesh.
April 12, 2007 at 12:00 am