In Real Life They Are Dead

My mother and sister
wave from the window of the train.
They smile, almost laughing,
and nod at one another. They look out
at me on the platform
and wave again.

The train goes, sounding just like a train.
The clacking begins, the chrome lines blur,
and this picture of happiness
moving stays with me,
like some treasure of the first time,
the first time I knew,

the first time I knew I was really alive
among people and birds and flowers,
the white lilies and white chrysanthemums.