Foliate Oak Literary Magazine
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The Greyhound dropped me
about a mile back on Georgia State Route 50
because they don’t travel these county roads.
It was another two miles
until I reached the long dirt driveway
leading to my family home.
A quarter mile down that drive
sat a white Victorian Greek Revival with pillars
and a large shaded front porch.
But even from that distance
I could tell it was Bessie,
our long-time maid who raised me,
running toward me leaving a trail of dust
between the grand boulevard of oaks.
It was as if she was running in slow motion,
but as she got closer I could see her smile
and the tears on her cheeks.
Then this sixty year old daughter of slaves,
said welcome home Mr. Johnny
and jumped into my arms
making me drop my suitcase to catch her.
I’ll always wonder why my mother,
like a lavender rose pressed in a book,
stayed up on the front porch in a rocking chair,
sipping her iced tea
on the day I returned home
from the great war.