•••
(On the 2:05 p.m. ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island)
•••

(for Georgann)

I don’t remember the names of all the ferries
we rode across the water from your island
to the mainland.

And I don’t think I ever got out of the car
to walk up to the passenger deck. On our
last trip

you slept in the passenger seat as I drove,
trying to figure out how to get you
to the cancer center.

You insisted that you knew the way—
you’d been there a hundred times
or more over the years—

but by then your mind was, by your
own admission, not what it had been,
and I decided that

whether you or Siri were navigating,
it would take higher powers to get us
where we were going.

And today on a ferry called Suquamish
I sit inside on the passenger deck, having
gotten here via plane and light rail,

and you will not be on your island
to greet me—though another friend
will. I had no idea

how to get where I was going today,
but all along the way, angels disguised
as people in rainboots,

carrying umbrellas and kindness,
stopped to ask if I needed help. I said
yes to every one

and asked a few others you’d strewn
on my path like breadcrumbs leading home,
which this place will always be

for you, though you morphed into mystery
not long after our last ferry ride together.
We did get lost that day,

but it didn’t matter. We got where we
needed to go eventually, even if we
arrived late

for your appointment, so many good
souls there happy to see you—
me chief among them.