In this strange town the funeral home lurks across from the county hospital the porch on the pink house sags while the rescued mansion next door remains a monument its newly-built wall a medieval illusion of concrete and stone steep streets and their names an awkward accent in my mouth unheard by twin babies swinging young couples gardening tee-ball teams practicing in their own triangle park. I swing around potholes take unexpected turns and find forgotten graves tucked in the north corner of town wildflowers blooming brightly under a twisted old tree its naked limbs clinging to bird-missed berries reaching up to remain a testament. In this strange town on this bittersweet drive I notice the presence of absence.
Terry Shamblin Writes 