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Monthly Archives: January 2008
Why crawl under a moving train? To get to the other side.
We were never supposed to be on or near the tracks. Doing so or even thinking about doing so meant we would die. But here we were. Not only was I thinking of doing this thing, of crawling under a moving train to get to the other side, here I was about to do it.
Just watch and wait. That’s all we could do….
Why do I remember this like I do? I remember it so much and so strong that I don't even have to close my eyes to be there again, over and over, that last moment...
Nobody ever said rain hurts. It does.
Parts of the sky were blue. A beautiful mass of color appeared against the darkest part of the sky and arched over the town. I asked Grampa. He said it was a rainbow. He seemed angry, a little sad. I’d never heard of such a thing. So much about rain I’d heard, but not [...]
Poppi went somewhere. He’s not dead, I guess.
Papa got on the train. I didn't actually see him get on the train. But I know he did. I was the only one with him at the time, and there wasn't anywhere else he could have gone. He just disappeared. I was so young back then I didn't know it at the time but people just don't disappear, not like I thought he did.
Trains don’t stop here, not for people
Trains don't stop here, not for people. You can take that in at least two ways and both would be true. Playing on the tracks, hiking near the track, looking for scrap or anything fallen off a train, or even thinking about it will get you killed. It's an on/off switch. Those are the words of my elders, not my words. I repeat them now as if my own just as they have done ever since those funny talking sweaty men laid down those ties and attached those long and heavy piece of iron against them without looking up. They just kept on going like the machines that run on them, thoughtless, heartless, loud and smelly.
The nearest town down the line is almost thirty miles in either direction. Shouldn't the railroad company have put in depot here, a watering stop, something?
You don’t touch rain. Rain touches you.
Rain is cool. Rain is wet. If enough rain touches you, you will become cool and wet.
Posted in Family, Fiction, Writing Leave a comment
Maybe you don’t know Lessi and me good enough to hear what happened
Sometimes he's so hard to understand when he's talking, not just the way he talks but more the way he says things. He's got a few friends, not really friends as much as people who think he's some kind of puzzle to figure out. So whenever he gets in his talking mood some invisible signal goes off somewhere and they show up and take turns trying to take notes, and that really makes him mad. But still, of all the things Grampa talks about all the time, Papa isn't one of them.
This is from Grampa’s diary and reads like the sound of his voice.
Melodies dance like raindrops on our desert streets, steaming until the cool of cloud-soak pacifies clay, closing cracks and washing away the hard shell, softening seeds laid dormant since our grandfather's birth. No matter who put them there, dropped their treasured code, coded treasure in just the right place. These are a few of the survivors, cast in safe numbers so, so high that a row of all nines gets nudged over until it becomes a one with more zeros than days I've lived.
“To that place we flew…” What did Grampa mean?