Night Owl

                                   by Brenda Joy Dobson

     After Mama died when I was thirteen, there was an absense of joy in our house three survivors. Everytime the river breezes came through the windows, every room swirled with her essence. Yet, without her, our lives grew colder, as did my bed.

     I missed cuddling up next to her in the dark on good smelling sheets. With the white starched curtains pulled back, we would lie there, looking out of our bedroom window towards heaven.

"Mama. How far away is heaven?"

"Very far away."

"Is it farther than Mount Pilot where Sheriff Andy and Opie live?"

"Farther."

"Is it farther than Chicago?"

"Yes, Baby. It's many Chicagos away from here."

"Well, Mama. How many Chicagos?"

"Hundreds and hundreds? Are you sleepy yet, Baby?"

     Sometimes during the night, we would hear a distant train whistle. Whoo-woo! Whoo-woo! Whoo-woo! Waking me to ask another question.

"Mama. Is that train going out west where Tonto and the Lone Ranger live?"

"Yes, Baby. Getting slee...py... yet?"

     I'd turn over on my side, nestle even closer to her and listen to soft breath sounds as I drifted off to capture dreams, riding along side my heroes with stardust flying everywhere. Sometimes a car horn would beep, swirling me back to Coal Bluff and away from my western retreat sidekicks.

     Overnight, dust from Route 837 South would come circling about the room landing all over Mama's furniture. After breakfast, she would dust while telling me a story. It was good to be five. Now, almost fifty-seven years later, as I dust Mama's furniture, I can almost hear her comforting voice saying, "Baby, let me tell you a story."