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train that had slid to the lake floor long before we were born.
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Perhaps we all awaited a resurrection.
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Perhaps we expected a train to leap out of the water, caboose foremost,
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as if in a movie run backward and then to continue across the bridge.
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The passengers would arrive sounder than they departed,
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accustomed to the depth, serene about their restoration to the light,
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disembarking at the station in Fingerbone with a calm
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that quieted the astonishment of friends.
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Say that this resurrection was general enough to
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include my grandmother and Helen, my mother.
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Say that Helen lifted our hair from our napes with her cold hands and
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gave us strawberries from her purse.