Sunday, November 3, 2013

...my father was a gypsy

     They emerged from the train squinting and blinking in the clear, pure Florida light. The train smell and grime clung to them along with the fear and longing for what they left behind. The memory of the train, ticking off the miles and hours like a long, sinuous clockwork, still vibrated inside their heads and aged them, rubbing their tender flesh raw, their tender thoughts numb.
     No one was there to meet them.  They milled around each other, shedding blankets, pillows, wool and cracker crumbs.
   The fragrant, deceptive future of their lives hung, invisible, around them.

2 comments:

  1. Hi Rowmie! Great imagery in this.

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  2. Love "the fragrant, deceptive future of their lives."

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