Dear John, I’m writing to you now, at this particular time as I’m sitting in my cabin waiting for the freight train traveling parallel track, in the same direction, to pass. I’m not aware of its importance, what could it possibly transport? Passengers yielding to these blunt steel boxes, seems banal in a way.
As I sit here, cramped between the gringy window and the family of irritated kids, the thought of visiting my mother-in-law, among other extended family, might require effort and patience much more than I can muster.
It’s been a long time since I saw them all. As you know, me and the in-laws never got along. Visiting them on such a short notice irks me, the prompt summons seem arcane.
I remember, years ago, your mention of this exact cross-country route. The trains always empty, clean and fast. I feel like this leg, through the prairies, changed since your last journey.
There it goes, the freight train. Slow, as on purpose. It’s been two hours and I’m sitting here looking at this behemoth slowly rolling through the landscape. The slumberous clunking noise calms me down, the kids get excited as the cattle cars come around.
This is the only thing I see now. I’m no longer upset, I’ve come to terms with the summons. It’s not a secret that the’re in ill-health, everything else can be inferred.
Finally, on the main track slowly ramping up speed. The freight train all forgotten now, as the countryside opened up once again through my smudged window.
As the train moves forward, so should I. It’s harder to write now, so I will leave it at that.