Night inventory: the cargo that will not cross

I'm standing on a wharf at night, and every crate is labelled with a word I used to know how to carry. The ferry won't take them, and instead of grieving I start sitting on them, one by one, like they were furniture. A man with a lantern walks by and says, 'You must be the translator of things that stay.' I don't correct him. I just start unpacking.