Zoë Landale

Writer & Indie Publisher

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Daughter (Part 2)

A phone call from your dad at home to say my tea is still on the counter. Yes, I realized that half-way to the ferry, could see my stainless steel travel mug by the spalted maple bowl on the counter. I’d made a cup of fragrant candy apple rooibos to take with me and then, in a hurry, walked out the door without it. Well, I will buy myself tea on the ferry, likely Earl Grey. I tell myself the world is full of riches, just sometimes (often?) they are not exactly as specified in the scripts we all run in our heads. How clear our scenarios are in those frame-by-frame set of expectations. They have coloured flags like Buddhist prayer flags. Goodbye, I wave. Flap flap, orange, yellow, green, blue, they wave back.

Under cloudy skies, I watch the dark bulk of Portland Island to my left. Off toward Saltspring, the sun lays a rim of bright water around the island, a puddled halo. Yet the island top is shrouded in cloud.

I feel like newspaper in a woodstove when the fire starts to run along it, only instead of flame, what I feel is a gentle, tentative happiness. A not-exhausted happiness. A good cuppa tea pleasure. A looks-like-the-weather-is-clearing lightness. Off to the south, the cloud is lifting.

Gorse in bloom