Such a lyrical name for a place like that—
Calling to ask to speak to him one could almost imagine a yacht club
But all the boats had sailed and left these empty vessels.
He tried to piece together what he could—who I was, why I called him so often, and whether or not I knew where he lived.
Was he in there? Each call ended the same way—-
Don’t worry about me, everything is going to be okay.
Was he being a parent even through the fog that surrounded the boat- house? Why else would he tell me not to worry? Holding the phone in a frozen hand, knowing I would never hear his flirtatious banter with waitresses, knowing that I had lost Big Sam.
The little deaths we endure from day to day, from the frozen coleus on the porch to the co-worker who died in childbirth, do not prepare us for this primal loss. My heart keeps seeking my throat. We are all on the path to the Boathouse, no matter what Virginia Woolf says.