I felt the locomotive before I heard it. Leaning against the greasy pylons, I was awash in the rumbling as it rode along the steel rails, and cascaded down over the wooden scaffold. It was a rhythmic thundering that resonated deep in my bones.
This was the timbre of my childhood. Escaping along the trestle easement, I would follow the tracks while making up stories in my head, lost in my fantasies of reckless adventure as the music of trains played in the background.
A lonesome whistle, swelling with tender emotion, sung a hymn of redemption. I was going home.