I never questioned why. Bert mixed martinis while Mother wrapped peanutbutter sandwiches for my trip.
Bert drove to the station, the train already in, ready to pull me away. A red-cap took my suitcase and I climbed aboard. I looked back to wave, but they were gone.
As fields and farms blurred past the window, I fell asleep, slept the trip away in dreams.
When the train screeched to a stop, I woke up and ran to Aunt Ada’s cold arms. She turned, emptying her change purse, to find a dime tip for the porter invisible as me.
Dianne Moritz, seeks understanding of her troubled relationship with her mother. She writes poetry and picture books for children since retiring from teaching in inner city Los Angeles.