The train’s timeless moan as we pull out of Springfield. Trestle bridges past islets emerging from fog, greenery receding to gray.
Clapboard, white picket, creaking stairs. 130-year old plumbing. Leaky windows. Rugs over hardwood. Lamp-glow and diaphanous curtains.
Cathedral spires in every neighborhood of Boston. Coupled women towing children in Northampton. The word “fens,” heard after so long.