He reached out and took my hand. Twelve years ago, standing by the road between our houses, with a flower I had crushed laying on that road, Auden had taken my hand. Taken it to comfort me. Was it happening again?“Serena, listen carefully. I think I have what you’re looking for, and that answer is one of the reasons I’m standing here today. Your mother wrote a letter as did mine. She explained some things that seemed just too unusual to have happened. I’m going to tell you of two things here. And, from what you’ve said, they’ll change everything.”There was no place to sit down so he just stood there, holding my hand, his face nearly glowing with what seemed to be excitement. His eyes too, locked with mine. There was something... “The first thing involves the little cemetery at the Methodist church. I know you’ve been there and I was just there as well and saw the graves of your mother, your aunt and Granny. In my way, I loved all three of them.”Now I was puzzled again. How could he. And so it stopped one afternoon. And so I wondered, as we will do whenwe are riding through an unfamiliar country, what it'd be like to staya while; how might the sun feel, say if you sat down by the water, whatkind of blue the snow would paint the hills, how would they flower inthe spring.Just where the river curved behind the western hill, I could make outthe roof line and the porch posts of a house: the shingles weatheredgray, the way folks let them do out there. If I'd been just a few seatsup, I'd not have seen it. I saw a woman step up to the porch rail, resta hand on the pillar. Looking at the train, I figured. You live outhere, the train is an event. Dream of where a train can take you; eventhe twice-a-week to where I was headed. The name doesn't matter.She'd let her long hair down, the breeze played with it, strandsfloating, falling, floating again; the skirt of her dark, old fashioneddress fluttering, a slower dance, below. What was she looking at? Itried to follow her line.
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