Homecoming

By morning, Shelly wasn't any better. If anything, he was worse, and considering his condition, Hester decided she best not leave him. Long toward late morning he developed a dreadful deep, hacking cough but nothing came up and several times Hester had to thump his back so he could catch his breath. By evening, Hester knew her Shelly was dying. With each long-drawn-out breath, his body shook so violently the cot seemed about to collapse. He hadn't uttered a word since midmorning, and along about midnight, his skin turned the palest gray Hester'd ever seen on a body. Shelly lingered on toward next noon. When she was sure he was gone, Hester pulled the coverlet up around his neck and sobbed bitterly. "Oh, Shell, you was a kind and thoughtful man," she wailed. "You always knowed what to do. You always made plans. What'll I do now? Lord, what'll I do now?" she cried and when she had finished her crying, she put on her coat and wrapped her woolen scarf around her head and set out for the village to get help burying her Shelly. She'd walked almost to the Patterson place when she first saw the wagon approaching. She stopped and waited. When the driver come alongside, he stopped. "I don't s'pose you could tell me how far it be up to the Cochran place?" he inquired . "Well, I reckon I could," Hester said, "Fm Hester Cochran." "I got this here delivery," the man said. He reached back and flung aside the canvas. "I reckon you know your old man ordered this." "Well ... no. No, I can't say as I did, but if'n you don't mind I'll ride on back up to the house with you. Shelly . . . Shelly ... he always knowed what to do." Homecoming The trainless track is overgrown With little locust trees And memories. I pick my way along The tangles of too many years. My mind still hears Bill Jolly's fiddle. The gospel melodies Aunt Vicie sang. I smell crisp October when the school bell rang Week days and for church call on Sunday. Streaming window glass; the haunt of sulphur gas The mine shut down before I went away. My feet feel drawn down by the rails To play in springs I left turned on. To see what washed away In all those years of flowing. And when I make that last sharp turn At Cattail Bend. A mud-wasp's busy whining Mourns my going. -Susan Staff 57 ...