We’ve gathered on the dock. Mother wears a custom-made
suit, bold black and white checks, the skirt fitted tight. My
sister and I teeter beside her, two untethered buoys, dresses
buoyant in the breeze. With her hand shading her eyes, Mother
watches the ship, a sailing city crammed with waving couples
against a white, white exterior. Bon Voyage, Bon Voyage, we cry
to friends of Mother’s, the wife barely recognizable
beneath a veiled hat. Corks burst from champagne bottles;
shrieks as the bubbling liquid pours over hands and arms. The
ship departs with an exaggerated HONK. We huddle in the back
seat of the car. Let’s pretend we’re sleeping on the
ship’s deck chairs, we whisper, and imagine the evening
growing colder. Perhaps we’d cling together, our shivering
bodies wrapped in widely-striped towels. Two girls alone on a
boat, the water black and rushing past, lips salty.

— Tina Barry, from