I was a kid
when I used to see Grandma
every Thursday for lunch.
No exceptions,
unless someone was sick.
Grandpa sipped his vermouth
beneath the hot wooden ceiling,
watching horse races on TV.
They reminded him of his youth,
and he pretended to make bets.
After lunch, around one o’clock,
I’d hear a train whistle in the distance
and I’d run to the top of the overpass
and lean against the railing.
Grandma kept an eye on me
but I could only look at
this machine approaching.
Everything became loud.
A cloud of smoke from the train
invaded my face
and I ran back to Grandma’s arms, crying.
Years passed.
Grandma left two days
after her birthday.
I was twelve years old, and I noticed,
for the first time,
the edges of childhood wearing away.
Why does the train,
once frightening,
now pass unnoticed?
I do not visit those street corners
anymore.
It wasn’t the train
or the height or the smoke,
but something bigger and heavier–
Something I knew
I could not outrun.