THE TRAIN • by Joanna M. Weston

The train’s whistle blew as Cely lifted a towel to the washing line. Mum must be at the crossing to watch the 9.15 pass, she realized, looking down the track; Dad’s train and him dead fifteen years.

But something was different: Mum was on the track! Cely began to run. Mum — alzheimer’s!

“God!” she gasped — running, the towel whipping behind her like a flag.

“Stop!… stop!” she yelled. The train’s roar crushed thought. The towel blew from her outstretched fingers.

“Mum! Mum!” Cely pushed Mum onto the far track and landed on her back. The towel caught against the passing engine.


Joanna M. Weston, M.A. has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty years. Has two middle-readers, “˜The Willow Tree Girl’ and “˜Those Blue Shoes’; also “˜A Summer Father’, poetry, published by Frontenac House of Calgary, all in print.


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