villa
with gardens
in the summer, and
in winter
a house in town
with parties
and a deep soft chair
by the fire,
with walls and walls of books,
children snuggling in and
demanding bedtime stories,
tea in fine china cups.
A perfectly lovely life
in many ways,
but I cannot conjure up the man
who fits in that picture—
husband,
father for those children,
reader by the fire….
I would rather have no husband
than the wrong husband.
I pull on my overshoes
and splash my own way
to the steps.
When Givens and his crew bring up the bags,
I corner the young stable hand.
He says that Peter received word from the valley
that he was needed
at home.
I sneak down to the pantry
for whatever I can stash in my pockets.
I have a little money in my purse.
I look in on my father sleeping
and say a silent goodbye.
Perhaps I will be back before dinnertime,
before Father even notices I am gone,
if Peter has truly cast me aside.
But then, perhaps
it is goodbye forever.
Johnstown
Peter
So tired.
The stove’s gone out again
and the ceiling’s dripping in one corner.
I can’t seem to raise myself.
When will this hell of rain end?
I haven’t seen the stars in so long.
Conemaugh Valley
Celestia
In Peter’s world
I will not have carriages,
so I walk.
Instantly drenched
and cold
in the predawn fog,
I am relieved to reach South Fork,
where South Fork Creek meets the Little Conemaugh,
and board the train.
The sky is white
and the rivers reflect it,
surging over their banks
and through the woods,
trees black and shining wet.
On any day,
just before dawn,
the world is black and white
like a photograph
and the colors come gradually.
But today they never come.
I feel entirely unreal—
like this colorless world
must be the view through a stereopticon,
and I have gone to live in its images.
When I close my eyes,
and open them again,
I will surely be snug and dry
in my bed by the window,
watching the mist lift off Lake Conemaugh,
safe in the embrace of my family,
not this specter
without form
or mass.
But I know I am flesh
because a shiver passes through.
My sodden dress
is dripping
on the floor of the train car.
A tiny rivulet
runs across the aisle
and a dry lady there
scowls at me
and lifts her feet.
Her shoes are immaculate.
The train creeps over a viaduct,
high over the roiling water below.
We pass the rows of white houses
on the flats of Mineral Point,
then on to East Conemaugh.
There I see a girl my age
sweeping the threshold of her house
across from the train yard.
She looks serene,
resting her chin on her broom handle.
Perhaps all her questions are answered already.
A toddler pushes past her,
then another,
then another,
upending a pot of red geraniums.
They chase rings around her
and stretch arms up.
She leans down
and hugs and teases,
then shepherds them back into the house.
Her face looks older to me now
as she scans the sky
and the hills
before closing the door.
My stomach is fairly insistent
that I stop for refreshment.
The bit of bread is gone
and I forgo the apple—
an apple on an empty stomach
only aggravates one’s hunger.
The tendrils of smoke appear on the horizon,
then the smokestacks
and taller buildings.
Johnstown is all before us.
Mills,
factories,
churches,
offices,
stores,
homes,
not altogether different from Pittsburgh.
Industry,
progress,
and, I hope, a good strong cup of tea.
Johnstown
Celestia
The waiter girl
brings scones and cream
and a second cup of tea.
I hand her the envelope
from one of Peter’s letters
and she points the way to his street.
I give her the coins for my meal
and an extra for herself.
She looks pleased
and pockets her gratuity.
How will I survive if I stay in Johnstown?
Will I have the price of a cup of tea in my purse?
Will I be the waiter girl next time?
I picture Estrella in the cheap muslin apron,
pouring tea for strangers
in a foreign land.
Or serving as companion and assistant
to an old widow
low on the social scale
who takes her in
in lieu of a salary.
Or maybe using her
with gardens
in the summer, and
in winter
a house in town
with parties
and a deep soft chair
by the fire,
with walls and walls of books,
children snuggling in and
demanding bedtime stories,
tea in fine china cups.
A perfectly lovely life
in many ways,
but I cannot conjure up the man
who fits in that picture—
husband,
father for those children,
reader by the fire….
I would rather have no husband
than the wrong husband.
I pull on my overshoes
and splash my own way
to the steps.
When Givens and his crew bring up the bags,
I corner the young stable hand.
He says that Peter received word from the valley
that he was needed
at home.
I sneak down to the pantry
for whatever I can stash in my pockets.
I have a little money in my purse.
I look in on my father sleeping
and say a silent goodbye.
Perhaps I will be back before dinnertime,
before Father even notices I am gone,
if Peter has truly cast me aside.
But then, perhaps
it is goodbye forever.
Johnstown
Peter
So tired.
The stove’s gone out again
and the ceiling’s dripping in one corner.
I can’t seem to raise myself.
When will this hell of rain end?
I haven’t seen the stars in so long.
Conemaugh Valley
Celestia
In Peter’s world
I will not have carriages,
so I walk.
Instantly drenched
and cold
in the predawn fog,
I am relieved to reach South Fork,
where South Fork Creek meets the Little Conemaugh,
and board the train.
The sky is white
and the rivers reflect it,
surging over their banks
and through the woods,
trees black and shining wet.
On any day,
just before dawn,
the world is black and white
like a photograph
and the colors come gradually.
But today they never come.
I feel entirely unreal—
like this colorless world
must be the view through a stereopticon,
and I have gone to live in its images.
When I close my eyes,
and open them again,
I will surely be snug and dry
in my bed by the window,
watching the mist lift off Lake Conemaugh,
safe in the embrace of my family,
not this specter
without form
or mass.
But I know I am flesh
because a shiver passes through.
My sodden dress
is dripping
on the floor of the train car.
A tiny rivulet
runs across the aisle
and a dry lady there
scowls at me
and lifts her feet.
Her shoes are immaculate.
The train creeps over a viaduct,
high over the roiling water below.
We pass the rows of white houses
on the flats of Mineral Point,
then on to East Conemaugh.
There I see a girl my age
sweeping the threshold of her house
across from the train yard.
She looks serene,
resting her chin on her broom handle.
Perhaps all her questions are answered already.
A toddler pushes past her,
then another,
then another,
upending a pot of red geraniums.
They chase rings around her
and stretch arms up.
She leans down
and hugs and teases,
then shepherds them back into the house.
Her face looks older to me now
as she scans the sky
and the hills
before closing the door.
My stomach is fairly insistent
that I stop for refreshment.
The bit of bread is gone
and I forgo the apple—
an apple on an empty stomach
only aggravates one’s hunger.
The tendrils of smoke appear on the horizon,
then the smokestacks
and taller buildings.
Johnstown is all before us.
Mills,
factories,
churches,
offices,
stores,
homes,
not altogether different from Pittsburgh.
Industry,
progress,
and, I hope, a good strong cup of tea.
Johnstown
Celestia
The waiter girl
brings scones and cream
and a second cup of tea.
I hand her the envelope
from one of Peter’s letters
and she points the way to his street.
I give her the coins for my meal
and an extra for herself.
She looks pleased
and pockets her gratuity.
How will I survive if I stay in Johnstown?
Will I have the price of a cup of tea in my purse?
Will I be the waiter girl next time?
I picture Estrella in the cheap muslin apron,
pouring tea for strangers
in a foreign land.
Or serving as companion and assistant
to an old widow
low on the social scale
who takes her in
in lieu of a salary.
Or maybe using her
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