Lament for a pirate's son

Speechless, she sat there in a heap, unmoving on the coffeestained couch of the intensive care unit quiet room. Guilt percolated her every word. Through her tears, she recalled how, at the time of their first meeting, his bandana, torn jeans, curses and three-day stubble had led her daughter to enquire suspiciously whether he was a pirate Now, in silence, the bitter irony of her child's imagery was plain. For months, the girl haunted me daily. Her face, forever etched in my memory, surfaced at will. In my migraines, her anguish; in my insomnia, her terror; in my deepest fears my own daughter's pale, naked body on a cold steel table. For as it happened, I did watch Cinderella: her breath in tandem with my own; her warm hand nestled in mine; her forehead soft under my lips. The same age. The same hair. The same eyes. A parallel unconsciously fashioned but evermore consciously suffered. She came back. Years later; she came back. Through him. What I thought was behind me lay ahead, once more. With a few more notches on his sword, he sailed back into our cove. We duelled, my cannons roared, but he never walked the plank. Battle-weary but still standing, he sailed away without remorse, aboard a sloop christened "Not Guilty."