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We walked down the road in a trail cut by Shady’s wagon,
a road that changed with each surge of the river’s
breeze. The fields caked in the drought, but the road
sifted sand upon itself and lay in mounds. That road had
been known to give up lost horseshoes, dried flowers and
smooth pebbles as round as the moon. Snakes slept in the
road until roused by wagons or wild dogs that cruised by
in the night looking to steal our chickens.
Venus shut her eyes in fear, but felt the creaking
comfort of her berth, a gentle rocking as the water
lapped against weathered wood. She fell asleep with
thoughts of her mother on their front porch at home with
the fireflies lighting the night. She heard her father
toss and turn throughout the night until dawn crept in
and the melodious whistles of THE GEORGIA filled the
foggy morning with a succession of notes. One long and
two shorts announced the landing ahead, Memphis,
Tennessee.
Eileen folded the red flannel rag, placed it on the
table between them, that patch of their son’s shirt,
taken from one he left behind when he went away as
silently as a dew drop at dawn. Nathan had watched her
cut off first the sleeves for dusting the stair
banister, and then the front right side of the shirt was
used for scrubbing the entry hall, and then the left
shirt panel, the part that Arthur had worn over his
heart, the square that now lay folded between them.
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