Off in the distance, tunneling through the evening squalls of snow that floured the caked mud and frozen river, was a low whistle. Howling ghostly moans of determination through the darkness, the train’s passengers were likely to be celebrating, champagne chilling in the fridge at the end of the cabin, awaiting a midnight hour.
Beneath me, trudging through the powdered fluff and marbled layers of ice rose a rhythmic clip-clop, clip-clop muffled by my own tartan scarf. The iron beams, old and peeling, that I had crossed over for many years nodded down at me. Respectful and quiet. A strength within them, cradling me above an icy grave of trout, breathless darkness, and silt too distant to find with groping, panicked feet. Every iron bolt held a memory of mine that even I had forgotten. Fishing as a boy. My second kiss with the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. A pair of stolen jeans traded for women’s lacy underwear that I wore home to my brother’s roaring laughter. A sunset with a porcelain doll, a diamond resting firmly on her milky finger. And fishing with my own boy.
In and out, in and out, a long passage of towns on the same grey mare just as trusty and bold as the ironwork we crossed. In and out, in and out, every morn and eve as the train roared in the distance.
The end goal always to find the other side.
I love the imagery of the memories being in each iron bolt. It makes me think of my car and how I know the story behind every single bump and scratch. To anyone else they may or may not even be noticeable, but to me it is a subtle tapestry that tells my story.
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