A hot dog used to cost a nickel here
Which she would grab from in her purse, and peer
Up at me smiling as she pinched them close:
“It’s always more expensive on the coast!”

She loved to feel the salt wind on her face
And lean beyond the wooden rail’s embrace
To taste the foam that whirled along the shore
With hints of Venice, and to hear the door

Creak softly open that might let her view
The spires of old St. Petersburg, or through
Its narrow crevice catch a fleeting glimpse
Of Bushmen practicing their crouching limps,

Or Byzantines with whirling dervish lined.
She’d only ever seen them in her mind
Through bars of words, her long-beloved books
Far kinder than the polished hoops and hooks

That kept her prisoned in our Staten flat
Chained to a chair that mocked her as she sat,
Torn in her heart by Beauty as it drew.
But in her long Promethean silence grew

A deep and reverent love through all that while
That never could be conquered. “Stanley, smile,”
She’d tell me. “Can we go to Coney now?
The gulls are getting hungry.” And the vow

We made each other echoed in my weary nod;
But never once begrudged her gentle prod
To wheel her on the boardwalk. Then the grime
Of diesel motors disappeared, and climbed

My spirit hand-in-hand with hers, to see
The children calling out for joy, to be
So bravely lifted on the Ferris wheel,
And flung so merrily around. Their squeal

Of happiness was never met with frown
From one who longed for new life of her own.
She once gazed long and pensively away
As waves lapped softly at the pier. “I pray

For quiet launch when that dark ship is come.”
I looked up and she smiled. “My mum
Offered me Coney or a party when
I had my first Communion. Now if then

I’d rather come here.” One night of sadness,
“Pray,” the Father told her, “to Saint Agnes.”
She shook her head, stubborn: “I’ll pray to God.
It’s Him I’m going to. Is it not odd-

“The light is brighter now; the waves are clear!
Stanley, feed the gulls for me.” I drew near
And felt the children’s joy in her quick breath
And knew that Someone rode with her through Death.

Photo Credit: Elliott Erwitt, “Man on Coney Island,” 1955

Author: Jeremy Vogan

My name is Jeremy Vogan. I live in Staunton, VA with my wife and four kids. I love to write, and seek to honestly explore the intellectual and emotional implications of following Jesus as a deeply broken person in a twisted, cruel world that is full of veiled beauty and meaning. Writing is part of how I faithfully look for Jesus Christ to someday make all things new. I'd enjoy hearing your feedback! JV