Another in the Scottish Husband series… do you need to know anything more about the mother? Include “nautical” or not? (Pun just fun.)
He wanted to go to the Isle of Man,
a self-governing island off the coast of Scotland
in the Irish Sea. His mother had had her intuitions.
A flush young man in a Savile Row suit,
bespoke tailoring. An island in charge of its own internal
affairs. She had kept silent all these years.
Silence like a gag order. He needed his birth
certificate. She'd given him everything,
but she resisted giving him this.
His birth-mother had had a great head of red hair.
Face like a paperdoll. Over the way of Bennachie by Peterhead,
his mother said, long “ee”of her distress.
My Scottish husband had been advertised in the classified
section of the local paper. "Bairn for adoption,"
which was privately arranged
by his mother's doctor, prescribing a bairn
as remedy for grief, his mother recently widowed,
nearing forty, alone, her husband killed too early
by an overturned tractor on the family farm,
which was handed down to a brother, since a woman couldn't own
property. She mourned the loss of her man and her home.
His birth-mother was a towering dame,
placing the bairn in her arms, bulwark arms of her father
behind her, the bairn's father one of his hired help.
My Scottish husband never wanted to hear.
"My mither was my mither." His arms crossed like a (nautical) knot.
His passage a ferry ride between two countries.