Ellie Sawatzky reads “On Crete”

Dad and I are sweet to each other, knowing
Mom’s not here to be our mediator. We’ve never
traveled just the two of us. Every day

dark clouds rove the olive groves outside
our Airbnb. The cold, chemical-bright surface
of the pool jumps at the invasion of raindrops,

raises helpless fists. The neighbour brings us
fresh eggs, jugs of sour wine. We pass time,
side by side in silence unfurling laundry

onto a drying rack under the carport. What
does he think of my unfurling? My panties
on the line like wet leaves. The unavoidable

intimacy makes me uneasy. Does he see
himself in me? Greek radio and cowbells clink
in the next valley, tinny reminders of those

warm bodies. Dad and I don’t speak about
my grandmother, his mother-in-law, who’s dying,
but she passes between us like the shadow

of a branch on cobblestones. And Mom, who was
supposed to be here, who insisted it was fine, go on
without her, anyway, there was nothing we could do.

When we get the news, the loss echoes in a distant
valley. Dad and I go for a walk, watch our guilt
float away into the olive trees on a floral, 

chlorine breeze. My parents were here together
thirty years ago, before they were married. I know
he’s thinking this isn’t how this trip was meant

to be. When I was in love I made symbols of things
like yarn and spruce trees, circled them repeatedly.
Still do, even in my loneliness, love being the stronger

feeling. I wonder if this island is like that for my dad,
a place he touches in his mind to find it. Look at the moon,
he says. Behind the clouds like a smoke ring. I wonder

if he would agree with me that this is lovely, despite
everything. I wonder if he’s thinking of the time
he almost died, and we all flew across the country to say

goodbye. What does it mean to return from that
barbed darkness, in what ways does death dig into
the living? Trauma primes the body for deeper

trauma, I learned recently, an old story
looping in the adrenals. Dad is still afraid
of falling. We’re both afraid of hard feelings, 

so we don’t speak about our sadness,
Mom’s sadness, how he should be
with her. He cries quietly watching Queer Eye

on the Airbnb TV. He likes my Instagram photos
at night from his bedroom down the hall. Outside, rainfall
pins the full moon to the bottom of the pool. Finally,

on our last day the sun reappears and I navigate the way
to the sea. Dad wants to find the black sand beach
from his memory. Familiar names like Kissamos

and Elafonisi. Back home in Winnipeg, Mom
is making phone calls, planning freesias for
the funeral, folding down the back seat of the sedan

to fit the casket. A little further, Dad says, as the road
turns to dirt. I remember this, this is where we were. Sea
frothing green. He says, Yes, this is it. Their love is here,

a stone he can pick up and take home and give to her.

Char Harrison on “On Crete”

This poem speaks to the emotional distance often present between Boomer dads and their Millennial children, who grew up in a time of more openness around mental health topics, and perhaps with better language available to communicate sadness and grief. Small domestic moments, such as folding down the back seat of the sedan to accommodate a casket, show the father striving to be present in his own way, while others–the narrator hanging underwear on a rack to dry–reveal the uncomfortable chasm that neither knows how to cross.

Bios

Ellie Sawatzky

Ellie Sawatzky is the author of None of This Belongs to Me (Nightwood Editions, 2021). Her poems have appeared most recently in The Walrus, Canadian Literature, and SAD Mag. She lives in Vancouver, where she works as an editor and poetry teacher. Find her at elliesawatzky.com and @elliesawatzky.