Augury

my picture books. Behind the engine that pulled us, from other cars, faces like our own stared out identical windows. Then the tracks straightened, and I saw only bushes, flowers and trees again. The phone rang, startling me. I grabbed the receiver. My dad's doctor said he was awake now. The operation seemed to have worked. Thanks to mom's all night vigilance, the tubes had stayed in and drained the fluid. Alert, thinking clearly, he was sitting up eating his lunch. If he continued this way over the next few weeks, we could be sure the surgery was a success. I hung up, then tiptoed to mom's doorway, hoping the phone hadn't disturbed her. She was till inher pink dress, stained with a small coffee spot. I imagined the flimsy styrofoam cup grabbed deep in the night, held with shaking, crippled fingers—she lay on her back, mouth open, eyelids rolling, following some slow-moving dream. I pulled a blanket over her. She'd have to wait before hearing the good news. I stood there, and for just a moment allowed myself this clear, fine image: my mother tucked safely in a dream, while my father—his clever, charming self again—chatted to a nurse about his grapevines, his roses, and the collards he'd plant come fall. Augury On the side of the barn— right in broad daylight— a luminous green piece of the moon, a luna moth, flattens its phosphorescent self against a gray oak plank. It shines, stopping a summer day in mid-flight— so bright it makes me recall far away factory towns, where moths evolve into colors closer and closer to the color of soot. —Edwina Pendarvis 42 ...