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Cove of the Unremembered

"Galatine shore at the Bay"

I kept a small cove
on the far side of the Bay,
where the waves were gentle
and the wind spoke softly
to anyone who needed
a place to steady their breath.

They came to me
like tide‑tossed children,
salt still in their eyes,
hands trembling with the weight
of words they hadn’t yet learned
to carry without breaking.

I shared with them
how to listen to the sea
without mistaking every ripple
for a storm.
I showed them
how to shape their pain
into something that could float.

And one by one,
they found their footing,
their voices,
their bright new sails.

I watched them leave
with pride tucked quietly
behind my ribs.

But the Bay is wide,
and gratitude is a fragile thing
in young hands.

Now the cove is quiet.
Only gulls remember my name.
The water still waits
in the shape of their absence.

Sometimes I hear laughter
from distant harbors

— familiar voices
that once called me brother,
mentor,
uncle.

They do not look back.

I remain here,
a lighthouse no longer needed,
keeping vigil for ships
that have already forgotten
who taught them
how to navigate the dark.

Still,
each dusk,
I light the lamp.

Not for them

— but for the promise
I once made
to every drifting soul:

If ever you are lost again,
I will still be here.
Here at Galatine Cove.

Waiting.
Unforgotten,
even if only
by the sea.

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