I live by the train tracks. Every night, the train signals its arrival with a series of bellows, some long, some short. It's a code, a hidden message that says, "I am here. I am slow. I am dangerous." When I feel lonely, I just imagine its low bellow as God's voice responding to my prayers. I know that it's not exactly biblical and that, really, my brain on sugary coffee conjures up strange images sometimes. But, I think it's fun. It's fun to imagine myself tucked away in a boxcar somewhere in the middle of the desert, watching as the land blurs away into nothing, leaving behind only starry sky. Where does the train go? I'm not exactly sure, but it's a one way trip and the train bellows out an elegy.

Every Thursday, at twelve on the dot, a small calico cat trots about town, carrying a package that is wrapped in fine red ribbon between her teeth. She seems to be friendly enough, even letting people give her a scratch between her ears. But, she's a busy cat, so she doesn't let people pet her for very long. After all, she has a job to do and, rumor has it, she has just given birth to a litter of kittens. No one knows where she comes from, if she has an owner, or to whom she will deliver the next package. All anyone knows is that she shows up at their front door right when they need her. Last week, Tammy's boyfriend, Gerald, broke up with her and in her darkest hours, the cat delivered a box of peanut butter cups to her apartment. The week before, Sharon lost the local church's baking competition but found some conveniently placed sugar cookies. Townspeople should not be worried about the cat's motives. She's a lovely creature and everyone should look forward to a visit from her.

People usually don't do well with loss. For example, Patrick Higgenbottom is a new widower. His wife, Laura, was lost in a hiking accident only a few weeks ago, and Patrick blames himself every day. If only he'd gone with her. If only he'd gotten her to stay home. If only, if only, if only. Poor Patrick is beside himself with grief, so he seeks out some rather interesting methods to help soothe the emotional ache. No, not alcohol or drugs or comfort within another woman's arms. Instead, he clears his mind. Now, he is subject to that other world. So, he writes a letter to his deceased wife. To his delight, there is a reply. "I am not your wife." Patrick Higgenbottom does not attempt to contact his wife again.

If you listen, You can hear the language of the birds. The Mourning Dove cries in her nest In the darkest corner of the back porch. Secluded in my home, I observe it like one studies the migration pattern of geese. I know its feathers like I know the lines on my palm, The brown of my own eyes. I've even dreamt about her, Up in her nest. The sky is blue, But a jet cuts through it, Leaving behind a white, cloudy scar. The air, Its scarred face is the cleanest it has been for years. I admire it From behind the thin sheet of glass That separates us.

The book was nondescript, plain. Surprising, considering my late mother was anything but. Everyone remembers her as that social butterfly, the beautiful cheerleader, lighting up every room that she inhabited. But, this diary was from way back in 1979, when my mom was still growing into her gangly limbs and discovering her interest in boys for the very first time. My mom passed away when I was only five years old; I jumped at the chance to learn more about the woman who lived in only blurry memories. I understood how historians must feel to find old papyrus documents written over three thousand years ago. So, I opened to the first page, studying every single detail. I don't know what I was expecting. Something serious, maybe? Oh, but I was wrong. So wonderfully wrong. My mom's diary was full of unintentional humor. You know how I mentioned her interest in boys? Oh, there was so much interest. Nearly every entry was about the 'dud' (dude) she had seen at church that day, how they would get married one day. The next day, she would find another boy she thought was cute and discard the other one. There were occasions where she would talk about a purse that she wanted, oh, so desperately and how her mom wouldn't let her buy it. "Sure, I already have five other ones, but I need THAT one specifically." There's so much more that I want to mention, but have to leave out for brevity. Of course, there was an undercurrent of insecurity in her writing also. She mentioned how she was made fun of for her gangly limbs, her lanky body. She felt unattractive. And, you know, that really hit hard. To think that she would later become the social butterfly... I wondered if these early insecurities caused her to change herself in any way. I could really identify with that. I've always felt that kind of thing, as I'm sure others do. But, I think that has helped me become a little closer to her. I've never been super 'popular' or good at being traditionally feminine, but at least my mom and I can understand each other in some way.