Prodigal

She sat by the dock
arms folded, hands gnarled
like the roots of an old tree,
waiting for the storm to break.
If the color of the sky
couldn't convince her to come inside,
I knew it would be useless
for me to try.
But I went to her anyway.
She turned her back on me,
dangled bare feet in the cold June lake.

She knew the storm would bring him back--
some piece of flotsam borne by wind or water.
And there would be tears
and forgiveness.
She was certain.

I told her she was a crazy old lady.
She told me to go to hell.
Thunder boomed as I reached the cabin.
I grabbed my raincoat,
ran back to the dock,
threw it down to her.
Slowly, I walked home in the pouring rain.