Through the Eyes of a Serpent

In the city of Cape Girardeau, the river tells its own stories. The Mississippi, mighty as can be, carries with it whispers of forgotten voices—traders and travelers, dreamers and drifters. I ride through the city on the back of Sammy, my garden snake, his cool scales shifting beneath my fingers as we slip between bricks and roots along the hidden veins of days gone by. He knows the forgotten paths, the places where the past lingers, where time refuses to move forward.

At dawn, the copper dome of Academic Hall glows like a coin just pulled from deep waters, catching the first light as it rises above the trees. The city’s heart beats there, just beyond the canopy, peeking out as if watching over the streets below.

Sammy winds us through Spanish Street, past the old storefronts where the glass still holds reflections of people long gone. I feel them watching, their presence in the sway of an open sign, the shiver of a curtain.

We begin to make our way down to the river, where the Mississippi speaks in a low, endless murmur. Its waters press against the banks, heavy with the weight of old stories. A distant train whistle rises over the current, a sound so familiar that I can almost feel the embrace of my grandma’s arms. The copper dome of the courthouse glows in the afternoon light, a beacon above the trees, watching over the city as a gentle reminder that night grows closer. For you see, Cape Girardeau isn’t just a city of the living. The ghosts grow bolder as the sun sinks. Shadows stretch down Spanish Street, their whispers twisting in the wind. Sammy and I move toward The Glenn House, where I have met them before.

The house stands waiting, its white facade glowing beneath the streetlamp, the past woven into its walls. Inside, footsteps echo when no one walks, and the scent of old roses clings to the air. I’ve felt them here before—the unseen hands brushing against my skin, the murmurs just beyond hearing. Tonight, the air thickens as I step closer. The ghosts are waiting. Sammy leads me home before they can ask me to stay.

And in the garden, Sammy the snake coils in the warmth of the earth, a quiet observer of time’s slow passage. He listens to the city breathe—the echo of past voices, the rolling of the river, the distant call of a train bound for places unseen.