I love remembering> I can see with my heart, and smell the smoke from the train through the scent of orange blossoms.
the aple tree is in full bloom and it's limbs bend in big bouquets against the screen of the sleeping porch. Monnlight blankets the dew wet grass with a white light that sparkles in the uncut blades. The humming of mosquitoes against the screen is absorbed in the far away moan of the train whistle when it starts over the trestle bridge. I want to weep as I stand looking out at the glistening tracks that run beyond the highway ditch at the back lawn. I wait for the rythm of the turning wheels to come into my range of hearing, and yearn for the mother that I could never really know.
I ease away from the window, being careful not to waken papa. the floorboards creak when I move to the screen door. The latch clicks under my hand as I lift it and let it fall against the wooden fram. I step out onto the new concrete steps that replace the shakey wooden ones. Beyond the window that opens out onto the sleeping porch, papa coughs and turns in his sleep
The train is coming close, it's whistle calls long and mournful into the Mississippi countryside. I move down the steps and go to the second apple tree. I stand in awe when the wind moves it's branches and the flower petals fall. My dog pushes his muzzle against my hand, and his tail makes a swishing sound as he wags it in greeting. Togeher we move out into the dew wet grass.I lift the hem of my gown to keep it dry as I listen to the click of the train wheels on the track, and smell the coal smoke that pours from it's stack.
Finally, I see the light shine into the Myrtle tree on the left side of the house as the engine rounds the curve.
Then the light leaves the tree, and sweeps across the back lawn, and swings back onto the tracks. The engine labors on the incline of the hill, slowing down until it is over the peak and picks up speed on the downgrade that will take into the railroad yards.
I turn and look back at the dark blots that my feet have left in the dew on the grass I count them as I wait for the lighter sound that signals the end of the train. It is time now for the caboose, and I say,"let the lantern swing." I say it over and over, like a prayer. I close my eyes to blot out my surroundings before I turn to face the tracks again. The caboose is even with me now, and I hear a voice call into the night, "a few more hours, 'til eight this morning. See you---,"and the train wheels seem to say,"at the church, at the church."
From the end of the caboose I see the red lantern rise high, descend, rise high again and swing to make a perfect circle.
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