Tempered

We moved to the Chicago suburbs just before Leo was born. Now, with a freshly minted driver’s license, he sometimes picks me up after work from the train station on rainy days. We chose our house, partly, for the easy commute into the city. Our lives anchored around a twenty-nine minute train ride. Thirty-seven if I miss the express or feel like taking longer.

During the morning ride, passengers stare into their phones as neighborhoods, warehouses, and places in-between pass by the clouded green tempered windows of the train car. The route is always the same, things along it change slowly - buildings are demolished and rebuilt, the recycling center receives a mountain of scrap and gradually sorts through it. If you know where to look, discarded dreams lie decaying near the tracks. A boat, a travel trailer, an old car. All intended to escape and hit the open road, now stuck, rusting away in place. In the morning, the train is quiet. The only sounds are occasional interjections from a conductor and poorly automated announcements.

Dan-ger, ano-thertrain coming. Dan-ger, ano-thertrain coming.