Originally published in Rigorous
When you spotted my grandfather
watching you from the railing
of the afterdeck—
manifest tag in hand,
anxious to reach Ellis Island—
you were still the color of copper;
he, still Enrico Ambrosiano.
When you spotted me
atop the forecastle of the ferry—
a torch in your hand,
an iPhone in mine—
you were completely green;
I, too, in age, experience.
As you watched the steamship
that had carried him aboard—
less crowded now, headed
the other way—sail by,
you wouldn’t have seen
him at the railing.
Did you assume he passed
inspection, examination,
emerged with a new name—
shorter, less Italian?
You’d have been right.
As you watched me return
aboard the ferry—
having stood, walked
in the same spots
he entered, exited—
did you see me
staring back—our faces
intense, illumined?
The three of us connected,
changed
across generations,
atop waters.
