My mother longed for the sea,
said it let her breathe,
cleared her head. She
moved us all to Mrs. Swan’s,
a boarding house in Bangor
and a room facing the shore.
She’d sit for hours, watching the waves,
laundry, dishes piling up,
a far away look. The screech
of gulls, smell of seaweed
from the docks, kippers
from the kitchen. And damp,
the mould green at the windows
invading the wardrobe, colonising
her good wool coat.
He’ll come, she said. One day soon.
Each day her breath grew more ragged.
Some ozone, she’d say, wrapped
in a blanket, sheltered from the rain
on the prom, tears from the wind
running down her cheeks.
When Mrs. Swan called for the rent,
found mother sweating on the bed,
windows wide open, salt spray
staining the curtains, she whisked
us away, bought us sweets, ice-cream,
called Grandma.
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