My eyes search for my orange beacon
to guide me through this salty sea of black.
I can see it bob up periodically
when a black wave holds it just so.
I sail towards that light.
My crew keeps track of our movements
but every few seconds we lose it again,
finding it moments later.

The storm only worsens,
the wind pushing harder,
the rain easing no pain.
The ships all around us are beginning to leak.
Their crews are panicking as they slowly start to sink.
Down to the black waters they descend
to become just another salty wave
that breaks against my hull.

But my vessel stays afloat
and we steer it to the little island of orange hope.
But before we can dock,
I know something is wrong.
Something we couldn’t guess
while back in the storm.

The island is destroyed,
demolished,
and broken
and no amount of dress pants or fancy ties can fix him.
There are tears in his eyes,
on his cheeks,
on his shirt.
Whispers all around him saying
“They were much too young.”
He points a shaking hand,
shaking finger,
to the big, brown, box behind him.

On my tip-toes, I peer in
at Ryan’s mom—
still and lifeless.