She looks at me tentatively from her oval frame –

the child in white voile and blue ribbons

whose home for fifteen years 

was on the sea in that tiny space –

six by ten perhaps –

allotted to the captain and his wife;

her life encompassed by a bunk, a trunk, a bible,

the smell of whale oil

and the taste of hardtack,

spread with a thin film 

of New England jam.

She knew the grass green

and mountain purple of the oceans,

the smell of Peruvian grapes,

the dusty shudder of earthquake,

and the humid roar of hurricanes.

She heard the languid beat of African drums

and knew mutiny

              and loneliness

                         and fear.

 

I only knew her ‘old’ and held her hand

before she died and left her youth with me.