![]() 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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