The Captain
Grandpa was captain of his living room,
commander of a big green chair, reading aloud
from Treasure Island and Captains Courageous
as I lay rapt on the rug, socked feet scissoring in the air.
It was a week of rules,
of dotting every i and crossing every t,
of learning to fold the corners of the guest bed
tight, the way the Navy taught him.
I listened, breathless, to his stories of the sea.
I rode with him on remembered waves,
imagined the taste of salty air and the sound
of the wind whistling through the taut rigging.
He lost the wind when I was ten,
ran aground in a hospital,
drowned in his own body
five hundred miles from the sea.
;
James A. Clark is a long-time resident of Nacogdoches, Texas, where he tries-and sometimes fails-to balance his time between family responsibilities, his education, and his writing. He’s been a shifty-eyed car salesman, a slouchy convenience store clerk, a sawmill hand and, for a few minutes, a telemarketer. Through it all, though, the single constant thread has always been the act of putting words on paper.
Read more of his work here.
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What lovely imagery. Thanks.
Beautiful imagery in this one. I especially like the “remembered waves.” Thank you!
Thank you so much for the kind words.