End of the Line
|Grandma's house at the end of the line in Norwood, LA|
There is a place at the end of the line,
Where the train track stops, as well as time.
Home to few, more ghosts than any,
Forgotten ways and days are many.
The green is lush, the air is thick,
Laced with ivy-covered, crumbling brick.
Hundreds of years of lives and lore,
So many of mine have gone before.
The best of me has come from those,
Who rest here in eternal throes.
The backbone of my family tree,
With branches stretching out to sea.
Across these quiet hills and dales,
Where plantations reigned, then came to fail.
Lazy bees buzz as we stagger in the heat,
The freshly dug grave looms at our feet.
Saying goodbye to another of the best,
Before drying our eyes and heading west.
I claim a piece of you as mine,
As I leave this place,
At the end of the line.
Dedicated to Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Jane, Aunt Joy, Gagy & Grandmommie, Grandma, Uncle Tobe, Uncle Tip, Uncle West and Aunt La La. And Sonny.