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Echoes of a Train Whistle

It was by train that I had always imagined arriving.

My dress would be the blue of a spring sky.

I would wear a bonnet of yellow straw, with sprigs of lilac,

carry a cream-colored calfskin valise.

I would gather my skirt.

The conductor would extend a gloved hand,

take my parasol

help me down the steep steps.

She would be there.

Eloise.

Waving, smiling,

with Peter holding her hand.

They would rush to me.

She would still smell of lemon and love.

We would hug and laugh,

and talk in the language only sisters understand.

We would be as we were ten years ago.

Before Mother died of consumption.

Before Father married again.

Before three younger sisters crowded us out.

Before another train took Eloise away.

Every night, I read the five letters she sent,

one each year on my birthday,

until the last, five years ago,

that only said,

I miss you.

Don’t forget me.

Every day, as I pass the station

and watch the St. Louis Speciabring mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters,

I wonder if she imagines me arriving by train.

Grandchild of CronusOdd that I have visited your namesake, nestled by the Aegean, thousands of miles away,

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