Paid Crossings

by J.A. Otto

My mother ferried me

across rivers.

Parking lots after rain,

the current of hospital corridors,

school doors gurgling open.

Her purse held applesauce,

crackers, peppermint candies,

small round coins

for passage.

Her hand closed around my wrist

when I drifted toward water.

Now my son sleeps

heavy against my shoulder

while I wrestle

his car seat straps

in the dark,

keys clenched

in my teeth.

The river appears

in puddles

at my feet.

Everywhere now

water.

I understand

how often

my mother rowed back

through black water

alone,

how many crossings

she paid for,

and the tolls I would pay

to return her

to the shore

of the living.

Just to tell her

I know.