India Ink

When I was a boy, we traversed the Caribbean on a freighter, docking at islands to offload freight, then loading fruit and sugar for the mainland. The Captain said to my mother, “You are an artist. Draw for me in my book.” That evening, the Captain’s book open before her, India ink spilled across the page. My mother wept and from my bunk I shared her misery. When morning came, I saw in the book the perfect image of the freighter, sailing at night through black water, yellow stars piercing the midnight sky. The India ink had done its work.