Just outside town there is a long railroad trestle over a large pond. I still walk out there to gaze down into the deep, dark waters, and remember.
Fifty years ago my younger brother Timmy fell into the pond while he, my father and I were fishing from the trestle, and drowned. We never found his poor little body.
Usually, as I turn to retrace my steps homeward, I hear a sound, as though someone had dropped a small stone into the water . . . or as though tiny fingers had briefly broken through the surface to wave farewell.
Fifty years ago my younger brother Timmy fell into the pond while he, my father and I were fishing from the trestle, and drowned. We never found his poor little body.
Usually, as I turn to retrace my steps homeward, I hear a sound, as though someone had dropped a small stone into the water . . . or as though tiny fingers had briefly broken through the surface to wave farewell.
