water to water

I grew up on an island. It rained a lot. When the grey settles around an island you suspend like ashes in smoke, grey water, grey sky, grey rain, no mainland. Like wool socks, you might smell musty but there was always comfort in the thickness of the clouds drizzle. I was never one for swimming or boating. But, the boundaries imposed by island-life give me heart palpitations at the thought of living land locked.

Uncle Frank died last Saturday. His service was yesterday. My dad had been out there, mowing the grass, painting a flooded basement, riding back from the hospital in the ambulance with his brother. He helped with the funeral and flight arrangements. My cousins and my sister and I look like we're siblings, Zimmerman genes not ones to go recessive without a fight. But, watching them keep a stiff upper lip at the service made me realize what a strong silence is present in all of them. It hurt to see them so solemn, not in pride but shouldering a sadness so great silence seemed the only way to heft the burden. The air was thick with moisture, the sweet decaying smell of duff and crowded highways. Ashes were poured. I felt guilty and ashamed for the tightness in my throat, watching my cousins bear this loss with such grace and love for their dad and each other. Air like breath already breathed, damp and alive.

Back home in Seattle the sun came out, smacking down weather.com yet again. The sky opened blue and eager, breezy and soft. Out in Discovery Park the yellow of the scotch broom was sharp, almost mean, against the crisp water of the Sound. I miss this place. I feel porous, nostalgic with the salty snap of the air. The train weaves along the Sound like a water snake, passing ferries, fishermen, bridges, eagles, acres of trees along the shore, until it darts into the weeds along the lowland, twisting away from the water through, and past, Olympia.