Harbour

When you untied me in the night and I drifted into the sea as you receded into the distance – waves lapping against my hull and the wind carrying me in any direction it chose and the seagulls making a home in my crow’s nest – creating a misnomer – and the sun bleaching the oak of my body and evaporating the seawater, leaving salt strewn along my planks and the blue whales colliding their fleshy bodies with mine and you smiled – you smiled when you didn’t see me in your harbour, when you saw it so empty, ready to welcome different ships from different lands, and when I thought about that I wanted to drown – 

until I learned to hoist my own sails, steer my own wheel – until I learned to navigate by the stars and the sun and predict the weather by the clouds and the wind and as time passed (I learned to count the days) I strained to picture my old harbour – the one I used to call my home – and as more time passed I could barely picture it at all for I saw a different harbour – somewhere on the other side of the world – and I set course to seek that harbour even though I wasn’t sure that it existed – for I knew that seeking was all there really was. 

George Nevgodovskyy was born in Kiev, Ukraine, but has lived in Vancouver, Canada for most of his life. He has previously been published in East of the Web, Rejection Letters, Literally Stories, Fairlight Books, and others. He does his best writing after everyone else has gone to sleep. Check out his work at georgenev.blogspot.com.

A Song for George