Mystic

On the way to Boston, she thinks she will remember, later in the day, or after a passage of time, the full weight of that moment. Receding into darkening silences, what is captured will not reveal itself.

Some wait for forty years to then appear, unasked, like white sails rising through shallow mists. So it was that day, when the memory of Mystic and the longing of a young woman came reeling back, windward. She wakes to find misted silver laced like caterpillar trails upon her hair, the shock of arrival stares through the window, now vanishing.