My sister can text with inflection. Her words are not flat on paper or screen; I can hear them in her voice, exactly the way she is thinking them all those miles away.
Still. I wish I were on a train like in November, drawing closer, waiting for the station escalator to lift me into sight of the top of her hat, the quirk of smile on her face, the scarf, the jacket, the boots, the hug, the homecoming.
1 comment:
me too -- only I wish the train were pulling in at White Sulphur or Charleston or Huntington with her on board, coming to see the old folks at home.
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