You and I, together with our spirits, walk the ridged strip of land where the old train tracks used to be. I mention this to you, tell you about the steel tracks, just as my father told me and his father told him. How the railway stretched across here for decades before World War two.
They used to work this railroad, my family, moving coal daily with their hands. Hands which were eventually stained sooty and black despite however many baths. But this I don’t say. I don’t tell you about my family, their hands or their occupation—I know that this is only really important to me. I’m sure you wouldn’t care.
You stop to take a closer look at the ground, stoop, shiver, and then continue on. But I stay back awhile, seeing if you’ll notice that I’m missing.
Looking back behind me to the route we’ve come by, I see the grassy ridge stretching towards the end of the world, a greyish sooty smoke of skyline. And I almost see my great-grandfather’s train puffing towards me, all dark window-eyes and angry red body. Like those trains you see in picture books as a child, but not nearly so innocent.
Turning back, I see that you have waited for me.
By skipping to catch up, I reach you and we fall into step again. You tell me that you’re glad the tracks were taken away. Because otherwise a walk along this ridge wouldn’t be possible, would be something other than a casual Sunday stroll, would be suicide by train. I don’t know if I agree but you see me nod, nevertheless.
The twilight darkens and freezes around us; we walk along the ridge. And while you and I do not dare to, our spirits hold hands. And it’s warm.
