The tracks run through this desert town, but
the train moves right on through.
The old depot’s boarded up now.
As a child, on the weekends, my father would take me here – to this depot.
We would stand in the grand hall and watch the engine arrive from the North to
disgorge passengers, mail, and freight.
The train would rest at the platform for fifteen minutes.
Exactly fifteen minutes – no more, no less.
Just enough time to catch its breath.
Mr. Purcyllis would look at his gold watch.
“Booaaarrrdd,” he would yell before grabbing ahold of an after car.
He would swing himself up, as the locomotive gathered speed.
Father and I would move to the platform and watch the train
Slowly diminish as it moved out of sight. It would
fade in the shimmering heat that rose from the distant tracks.
When we could no longer hear the engines,
no longer hear the whistle; we’d pull our hats low over our eyes and
slowly make our way back home.
A Wednesday morning response to another Monday Writing Prompt generously provided by The Secret Keeper.