Unseeing Eyes

Inbound

A train blasts its horn and charges through the station without pause.  Moments later, another train of sorts—two engines connected back to back—leisures its way in.  A man outside the lead engine leans against the headlights, basking in the honeyed sunshine slanting through a cloudless sky.  He wears a thin jacket and a black knit cap that leaves his ears exposed.  His left hand in his pocket, his right hand is raised in a greeting to the passengers waiting on the platform.  His happiness is contagious: I lift my hand to shield my eyes against the sun and hope that I, too, am blessed by a wave and a smile from this stranger.

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Commute to the Past

For some, the train that runs through my town is a nuisance.  It disturbs their sleep, waking them in the middle of the night with its shrill whistle.  It holds up the traffic when everyone’s rushing to get to work.  But the train helps me commute to the past: The sound of the long line of cars rushing by transports me to simpler, more carefree times.  Whenever I hear the train, I’m taken back to my grandparents’ farm. 

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