Passing
My aunt grew up in Maine close to the tracks. Her bed shook gently. She fell asleep watching branches shadowed on the wall reach for the ceiling, bend, recede.
The summer she stayed with us in Palo Alto, a small earthquake hit and power flickered briefly, off then on. She said the train was running late.
I like to imagine her death came that way: a change in light she could take for something else.
Richard Jordan is a PhD mathematician who works as a researcher at MIT Lincoln Laboratory. His poetry has appeared most recently in The Atlanta Review, Tar River Poetry, Redivider, Two Review, and on the Verse Daily website.
Categories: Health
Richard,
I liked the whole package here, first word to last; moving and graceful.
Thank you for a thoughtful interlude.
I admire the economy in this: very effective.
hammer
love the unexpected ending coming as earthquake train..
Perfect. Every word necessary. The association at the end a tender, luminous surprise.
I found this a while back and I love it. For the longest time I thought what I didn’t like was the title. I felt like it told too much and I like to be surprised. But now I think it’s all just perfect.