\At the sunken pier on Ginger lake I see the remnants of bygone days capsized and tousled in reeds lay the tomb of travelled oak tied against the ebbing flow, Wrenching till the rope is taut. Once I combed these waters I would watch Grandpa fish, bellowing ghosts from yellowed fingers whilst coughing from the tea I knew was bourbon from a tea flask. One autumn I watched him sail he told me to wait at the pier, the lake changed from gold to silver I shouted “Grandpa”, “Grandpa” but my echo was all I could here. My father found him in moonlight, crumpled and static in driftwood ripples filling his wrinkles, his silver hair shining through matted silt next to his boat, full of dead fish and bourbon. I helped my father moor the boat amongst the cry from pelagic birds. My Father held me which thickened my throat impaling me with his comforting words. As an adult I return, to return my Father. Grief still thickens my throat, and there are no comforting words, just dying ones which said “fix the old boat”, And when I set sail with his ashes I will smile amongst the cries of birds.