The Jackson attraction

Once upon a week ago he wrote a blog of city noise. Art opening and party closing, dancing drama in skyrocket speed. But before he had bow ties to match his green eyes there were dirt roads and horse rides under empty sky.

So sons followed fathers some hundred seventy kilometers back in time, back to the town they came from. Back to fogged-over familiar faces, to flesh carved the same way it has always been, will be, forever.

Ninety years to the date the baby screamed, was wiped of family blood. She grew a bit but not too much, never quite hit five feet. Still she birthed four boys who grew too and had their own. And on that day three of them were still around to raise a glass.

Tables set for tea were filled with lady lunch. The cake was cut and cards exchanged, flights flew in with photographs of great grand sons. And after the home and town filed in and out we ordered dinner and cracked the bubbly.

One last glass and the wheels spun away again to bigger cities. But out both windows we took a pause and said to selves: what a woman.