Usher’s Ferry

A hummingbird, two hummingbirds, drink from stout-stalked crimson flowers circling the gazebo as the President speaks about consecrating and not consecrating, not having the power to consecrate, and that his words will be forgotten but not the men. Not the men, forgotten.  

The shadows of old soldiers linger on the steps.

Heat waves shimmer and the hummingbirds refuge in the only tree. This is an historical reenactment, and Lincoln, just a tall man from a neighboring town.

They crossed there—a bayonet indicates a stand of whispering maples.  Today, there is a neck of the river, risen by last night’s soak.  

Did they ride horses? a boy asks, clutching a wooden gun snug in his fist.

No, the bayonet toggles as the man adjusts his suspenders, most didn’t have boots much less horses. Any other questions?

Thank you for coming, thank you for letting us make big noises. We do this every September.  Come next year.

After crouching and hollering and shooting blanks from antique rifles, bodies rise off the battlefield and look for their wives and water. It’s sweltering out here.

As far as I’m concerned, she’s immortal

An old Cafė World coffee canister filled with plastic buttons. How “to give a shit” and “to care” converged. After the rape of Mrs. W, we locked our doors. To survive the camps and be raped in Rocky Hill made no sense. I no longer gave a shit about God’s plan. Setting is a compound construct of time & place, but context is more subtle. Light converged in agreeable shapes. It must be morning. In the basement, I’d tap dance incessantly to Singin’ in the Rain. Our one telephone affixed to the wall of the staircase leading to the basement. Two rings meant pick up, it’s me. Their private language. Grammy called on Sunday nights after supper, and I’d sit on the stairs in the dark and wonder if I was talking to a ghost. A pink room is always a pink room. In kindergarten, Dave Gorman thought he was a dinosaur. He died “unexpectedly” last Christmas Eve. Who expects to die on Christmas Eve? Most nights in clement weather, I’d walk around the block peeping into people’s windows. Our front door always bore a cheap wreath. You can’t discern the family traits until you gather the outliers.