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Show 199 Smoking, boozing, mocking the sacred, sure, but I also had not done well by some of my friends. "Just don't get too personal. Non-Mormons might get the wrong idea." "Okay mom," another on the pile of lies I've told her. It was morning again. The sunlight was penny-flavored and I was tired. Toward the end of the summer I was forsaking most of my loosely-defined train duties and sometimes would ride the trains, when they went slow enough past our station. Speed felt good to me. I liked the idea of continual movement; the one-way direction of the tracks and the sound of the train hom, even though as fast as I was moving I wasn't going anywhere. I was going to ride a different train right back to where I was. The speed sensation was significant but it wasn't the same as hitting the gravel like a match striking. But for a while I could permit myself the luxury of forgetfulness; no memory, just speed. Some nights I just hung out in the station and stared, blankly observing the melting quality of atmosphere when watched for so long, dripping like spit from the sky to the sand. Sometimes I would clean whole sections of the track, even the trash that couldn't impede the train. I felt something in common with my mom in those moments. She enjoyed being outside in the yard, and would pause to look at what she'd accomplished. I don't know what went through her mind when she did that, but it was obvious that she felt better about herself for a while. I felt that too. |