My imagination carries me to an imaginary river, where I float, the sky above me like a catheral. Imaginary ships glide by like priests serving communion and tugboats scurry, not like mice or nuns, but like dressmakers tucking in a hem with pins. Although she was neither tugboat or dressmaker, I think of my mother. Somewhere along the river there will be a tug pilot's ball. Mom loved to dance.

As do I. Today, though it's cold, I will walk to the Hudson river and watch the tugs. And the liners like brides.