by Lindsay Rutherford

Our tour group huddles
in the cave’s cool damp interior,
jostling to spot jagged outlines
of stalactites in the dark.

“Anyone feel a drop?” the guide asks.
“They say if a water drop from the caves hits you,
it’s good luck.” Voices murmur, “I felt one!”
“On my nose!” “Yes!” I am surrounded

by luck, yet remain decidedly dry.
The guide leads us through the dark,
which has grown darker, down a perilous flight
of slick stairs where he conjures a wooden rowboat

from the black void. We step in one by one,
silent, uncertain if we should trust the boat,
but having no other choice. With a lurch,
the guide pushes off. Above us, the ceiling twinkles

with hundreds of glow worms, which, we learn,
are not really glow worms at all, but larvae
of the fungus gnat. We float on an underground river,
through thick, still air, and darkness broken

only by these tiny blue larval glimmers.
There is some small comfort in surrendering
to the journey. Faint gray light swells in the distance—
the world in all its brash daylight, waiting.

I’m not sure I’m ready.
A water drop hits my neck, trickles down my back
in a trail of goose bumps. Another lands in my ear,
rolls into my ear canal, leaves me dizzy.

Is this what luck feels like?
The pager on my lap vibrates.
My husband takes my hand.
The surgeon is ready for us.

______________________________________________________________________

Lindsay Rutherford is a writer and physical therapist in the Seattle area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cleaver, Literary Mama, Lunch Ticket, The MacGuffin, Mothers Always Write, and elsewhere, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.