Enchanted majestically to be of a simple purpose, the Crane Wife, a sea-faring vessel of moderate proportions, was created for transport. She holds no treasure, but yet many seek to find her. She requires a crew of twelve. But her Captain may never worry for her well-being, nor should he (or she) chain themselves to her helm to live with her in a watery grave. She is a feather on the seas, swift to port, and light in the breeze. She picks her Captain and will stay with them whist they prove to still be worthy. This treasure is neither gold nor gem, but is indispensable. Because, if the Captain settles at shore and calls for her, she folds her white wing masts, tucks her nose into the folds of her feathers and sinks into the wooden bones of a fine crafted statue. The Crane Wife shrinks smaller and smaller until she floats into the palm of her Captain.
My mother has two infant pictures of me. She tells me I didn’t smile much but I had bright eyes and strong fingers. I remember that first picture.The one outside, in the spring sun and grass. I sat up on a rug, back straight but with a steady say, one foot nuzzled in the warmth of each hooked knee. To me, this world was the sea, splashing the green sea foam grass over the sides of my rug, a deck of rough woolen wood. I knew that if I stood I’d have to battle my stormy equilibrium, to gather my sea legs if I hoped to not tumble off the gangplank and splash back into the grass. I was content to watch the sun glint low over the fish scales of black ants, to watch my parents sail into the deeper water, circling with me as their anchor. But most importantly I listened to the wind and the comfort in his voice as he fished for the shiver in my spine.
Image: Sabin Boykinov