from Getaria to Donostia (San Sebastian), Basque Country

We left early, enveloped in near darkness, rode 
along the Bay of Biscay, water black metal, 
on the edge of the land, the night. Visibility low,
I focused on my husband's blinking red taillight. 

Dawn fought against low clouds, 
tinged the closest ones matte pink and pale yellow, 
turned the waves slate gray. Tension in the landscape 
waiting for release, air humid and electric, 
smell of saltwater, exhaust from light traffic. 

On the quiet country road traversing the hills 
overlooking the sea, thunder ripped 
through the vineyards dashing our hopes 
of reaching Donostia before the clouds broke down. 

The sky exhaled: rain quickly turned heavy, 
soaked my clothes, flooded my shoes. I struggled 
to stay warm. Scent of wet soil, washed leaves. 
Before the downhill stretch to the city, 
we paused in the downpour and laughed. 

When cancer stormed into his body, 
I nearly lost him and myself 
in a darkness no dawn could lighten. 

Drenched, shivering, with frozen fingers, 
but alive and not alone, I wished for the day 
to be just as it was. Back on the saddle, 
I pedaled off, into the rain, 
his red taillight blinking ahead.
                        

Anxiety shadows me like a drone.
I live my days in survival mode.        

I push off the dock
to open water, row 
on the bay, thread my way 
between anchored sailboats —
naked masts nodding 
in the breeze — channel markers,     
harbor seals drawing 
commas in the water.  
I relax into each stroke.

In the morning light, 
the water shimmers, 
Alcatraz appears airborne, 
shreds of fog linger on the hills. 

Is it selfish to give myself 
to sun and breeze when so many 
die daily? I cannot end contagions, 
wars, cleanse my husband’s body 
of cancer cells — need to remind 
my face how to unfurl into a smile, 
carry it, a pearl, into the day ahead, 
though shadowed.