what would you recommend?

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. we stood beside the ferry railing as the island drew near.
he stood to my right and asked of me:
so where do you think I should begin?
I’ve heard about the lighthouse, haunted cove and old weir,
the swimming quarry, museum, hiking trails;
how the sunrise looks from the northern bluff,
how lobstermen's days start before dawn,
and how wise the innkeeper is.
I’ve also heard about the stories Old Bill tells,
and who knows how to dig clams the best -
I’d like to learn.
I’ve heard there’s a nice spot to pick blueberries,
one particular summer-person’s dog to avoid,
and a kindly musician who lives near Sampson Cove.
what would you recommend?

​. the ferry was slowing when I replied:
I’d recommend it all.
see everything at least twice.
dip your toes in each cove, no matter how cold.
hike to the lighthouse and around each bend,
collect clams, blueberries and tales,
avoid the angry pup and befriend Old Bill,
listen to the guitarist's strumming and make blueberry pies, jams and pancakes.
no matter how many sunrises or swims you squeeze in, 
how much history you discover, there’ll always be more.
no matter how many memories, there will always be time.

. always be time, I said, back then. always.

. this summer I sat beside the funicular window as the mountain peak drew near.
a man sat to my right and I asked of him:
so where do you think I should begin?
I’ve heard about the shops, lanes and the castle,
the musicians, museums and hiking trails,
the sunrise from Edin Peak, the travellers' tales of its haunted past,
and where the oldest part of the ancient wall is.
what would you recommend?

. the funicular was slowing when he replied:
I’d recommend it all.
see everything at least twice.
try each restaurant, hike each trail,
taste all the local cheese and wine, 
each kind of bread and pastry,
trek to the castle, take in the sunrise,
because no matter how much history is here, people are always making more,
no matter how many memories, there’ll always be time.

. I thanked him. the funicular stopped and its passengers dispersed.

. always be time, I said, back then. always.

. the man on the ferry returned each summer to the island.
until he didn't.
it wasn't always.

. but I did not counter my fellow funicular passenger;
I had believed in always too. before.

. I sat beside the bed railing as the end drew near.
I turned to the man who laid beneath the covers and asked of him:
so where do you think I should begin?

. he answered:
that is up to you, my dear, that is up to you,
but please end at the village on the mountain.

. I stepped from the funicular into the mountain village
and explored my grandfather's hometown
as he had once explored my island.
then I went to the place he had described many times,
the spot he had first met my grandmother.
it was there, with the sun rising over his mountain home,
that my grandfather joined with the morning breeze;
it was there his journey came to a close.

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