My sister heard from them. The dead stood at the foot of her bed, leaned in doorways, lingered in the hall. Never done with earthly errands, endless business and pleasure trips, they often paused to whisper advice, deliver news, and offer tips. Once, our father appeared, serene, boyish, beaming with an ease we'd never seen. He wore a new green parka and carried a ring of keys. And when she asked, he told her in a word what it was like: Travel, he said. He could go anywhere, and he was happy, so happy! To live the way he'd always wanted to live. That's when she claimed to know, to understand. That's when she began to talk of destinations and departures. And her head was filled with plans: she'd travel light, forget her native language, learn to navigate at night, follow winding rivers, shifting sands. She studied charts and maps, spoke less and less, strained to hear voices in her dreams. She woke most days more focused on the road ahead. Take care of my babies, she said. The faraway look in her eyes made all my reasonable arguments sound more and more like lies. I've heard no voices. No one has come to tell me what it's like. Dreams are just dreams, the usual still-life scenes, news I already know. I jingle my keys for the babies and think about where I want to go. by Antonia Clark

('Travel' was previously published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Issue 5, Spring, 2007.)


art by Pat Jones