![]() ![]() After I scrawled back how much I adored Phoebe, star of the story-poems, they became the only kind of card Sadie ever posted. ![]() Her rare physical presence she supplemented with correspondence in snips and flashes. Sadie visited us in the District of Columbia, but not very often. I was five years old when I first laid eyes on her, on a postcard sent me by my dearest aunt, Sadie Boxfish, my father’s youngest sister, daring and unmarried and living in Manhattan. It’s always light, though gowns of white, Her unsoilable Antarctic-colored clothes were proof that the line’s anthracite-powered locomotives were clean-burning, truly-unlike their sooty and outfit-despoiling competitors: She was just an advertisement: the poster girl for the Delaware, Lackawanna, and Western Railroad. I never saw her doing anything besides boarding, riding, or disembarking a train, immaculate always, captivating conductors, enchanting other passengers. She was not retiring, though, and her life spun out as a series of journeys through mountain tunnels carved from poetry. She wore only white and held tight to a violet corsage, an emblem of modesty. ![]()
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