Trains

Trains

Jacob and I go out to sit and watch the trains that pass through our small Montana town. They shake the dusty Miller's Inn and the newly constructed McDonald's. Every night, I sneak out my window and climb down the oak that has been there for me all my life. The brittle leaves and the rough bark bring back summer memories filled with laughter and bruises. Yellow streetlights flicker in time with the pounding of my feet on the asphalt. I meet Jacob by the 7-Eleven on the corner and we race each other, through a maze of streets, to the train yard.

There's this rusted brown freight facing the silver tracks that we sit in, our legs dangling off the side. We sit and watch the trains go by, speculating what might be inside the multicolored boxcars. Occasionally we will walk through the steel graveyard, trying to figure out the tags that sprawl over the uneven surfaces. Sometimes I think back to when I first saw those bright blue eyes peering through the leafy branches of my oak. He had grabbed my hand and pulled me through the window without even asking my name. I remember running through the streets not knowing where we were going. Somehow we ended up at the tracks and he showed me how to flatten pennies. One cold metallic night after we scattered copper on silver, we talked about catching one of those trains and riding into nowhere. I said I'd do it and we planned to leave the next week with only a duffel bag and each other.

But as we sat in our rusty freight, hand in hand, legs swinging, voices soft and low, I couldn't look at him. I knew I couldn't go with this blue-eyed boy who pulled me from my window. I wasn’t ready for my great adventure. But he was.

And as I ran alongside the midnight train, I didn't join him in the boxcar. He nodded then smiled. And I watched as that smile faded into the dark night then turned and went home.

I climbed back up that sturdy oak, back into the safe arms of my childhood.