When Verdandi found herself no longer on the sea,
she rested her back, neck, head against the world tree—
Yggdrasil. Closing her eyes, she saw Aurora— purple,
pink, green in her mind’s eye— meditation colors.

She saw how they also belonged to the world tree. She
leaned again to rest upon the rough and scratchy bark.
Her eyes closed once more and the pink turned into
fuchsia to deep violet. She was interrupted.

“What can we do to benefit the future?” Skuld and
Verdandi asked Yggdrasil. “How may we possibly thank
Yggdrasil for oxygen, for music, for dance
in the swaying arms of Borealis?”

Verdandi held the palette of Aurora in her third eye. She
knew it came from the sun. She knew that all Mother
Earth’s beings were star dust, brought here by forces
stronger than any poet could imagine.

While Aurora rested like that, Verdandi dreamt of
Yggdrasil, of the Well of Urd, of destiny. She asked
Yggdrasil, “What does it even mean to save Earth
Mother?”

Yggdrasil replied, “It means to know we are all connected.
We can see the sky veils and Aurora’s colors. We will all
go home.” Urd tells of a time the Arctic foxes made the
Aurora. They ran through the sky with lightning speed.

Their tails, — large and furry, brushed against alpine
mountains — creating sparks that lit up the vast polar
sky. When their tails swept snowflakes up to heaven,
they caught the moonlight.

Aurora Borealis was only visible in the winter time.

Verdandi knew little of the three grandmothers, but a
generation had skipped between the three and herself.
That was her father— Charlie Dowling. Mary Ann Ericson
Inch was her mother. Yet, he was also a son of Norway—

Lover of sky, sun, desert, flight, birds, jazz, classical
music. His sister, Verdandi’s aunt, Mary Evelyn Dowling,
was nine years older than her brother, took care of her
mother after her father died of cirrhosis.

She sewed for her great-nieces, ran a boarding school
in Oakland, taught nursery school for forty years,
died of ovarian cancer, refusing to eat or drink for ten
days in order to hasten her end.

Verdandi dreamt of her twice — once of her aunt
bequeathing her a piece of art, the other of her laughing
at the joke that she considered death to be.


Verdandi’s friction with Charlie might have been she
reminded him of his Irish father, also known as Charlie.
He died two years before 9-11. As a boy during the
Great Depression, he heard his mother, Mary Ann,

Telling his father of her words, “How could you bring a
child into this world?” Mary Ann Inch, daughter of Annie
Ericson, had eight brothers, didn’t attend college, kept
house, cooked lemon meringue pie,

Sewed exquisite lace blouses, pleated woolen skirts,
bound books for St. Paul’s Cathedral, felt bitter she lost
her share of the family farm, lived thirty years with her
daughter and family—

Loved walking on the land. During the Great Depression,
forced to be the sole provider for her family.
Due to her husband’s alcoholism, she worked as a practical nurse.

Annie Ericson of beautiful eyes and black hair gave birth
to nine children who lived to adulthood. She was born in
Ornstein, Norway. Ingeborg to Verdandi was almost a
blank slate—save for giving birth to Anne.

Urd remembered an era when Aurora Borealis helped
to ease the pain of childbirth, but pregnant women were
not to look directly at them, or their children
would be born cross-eyed.

Before that, lights were spirits of children who died in
childbirth, dancing across the sky. After the remembrance,
Verdandi, her sisters Urd and Skuld witnessed Aurora —
more majestic than before, and the sisters wondered

Are you more powerful than the madness of humans
bound on destruction of all life? How will life continue
on Mother Earth. Will there be help from Father Sky?

Are you Spirit, Aurora? Can we believe in you? Who are
you to Aurora Borealis? Will your northern wind see us
through? Why don’t you answer our questions?

Your prophecy is carried in beauty and truth over time.
Verdandi’s youngest daughter has declared she will leave
no human descendant in this world. She who is the finest

Careful foster mother to abandoned cats and dogs. She
bows to her. The sisters of fate looked up to witness
the souls of old maids dancing in Aurora Borealis
waving at all those below.

The next morning we find ourselves standing together
on our ship’s snow-laden deck, our best assumptions
drowned in icy tears, transforming death into
a white cocoon.

It has produced a sacred butterfly spreading across
Verdandi’s neck, its wings emerging folded tightly back.
The butterfly’s brief light allows waves emotion brings.
One lump can be seen upon her throat.

The enigmatic ones are deep within, set upon the wings
of a butterfly, creature of the wind. They are born of
mystery, their short lives about to end.