Wednesday, June 4, 2014


I grew up walking railroad tracks. I took them on my way to school and I took them to see friends.

I balanced on the rails near graveyards and creeks and over trestles.

I held hands with childhood girlfriends, while the sound of stone under our feet broke the silence of youth.

I collected displaced railroad ties as if they were pelts from a hunt.

I carefully placed coins to be flattened and felt the vibration of the oncoming machine yet to be seen further down the line.

I hopped on the slow moving trains and rode them only short and safe distances. 

I craved the fearlessness of staying on longer. I imagined that the train went to places that I could not imagine.

I still love the tracks.

I enjoy the romance of my memory and the metaphor that they have become --that there are tracks you can follow and tracks that you leave behind so that others can follow you.

I still may hop a train and I may stay on just a little bit longer.

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