Cultivating A Necropolis

Small Groan

Nothing happened in autumn. The only things worth mentioning was being alone, inside before sunset, trying to remember the small things about him. It felt as if I could remember the forgettable things it would reflect how I'd never forget the big things, or some slight form of insanity along those lines. Doing that while trying to block out the destroyed future.
When it came to me though, it made the day worth living. At the end of October while Laura was still missing and Sheila and I were aimless and others kept living, I went to the train tracks Laura and I once visited so often. I was alone, at night, on metal bleachers. Thirteen tall pine trees divided the empty field from the tracks.
All summer I never heard a train go by on these tracks. Smoking and in a haze a small groan in the distance came over the fall air to me. As it grew closer I flicked the cigarette and made a determination. I went through the trees and hopped the fence.
Golden lights along the railroad yard. When the engine, pulling nothing but freight cars, came to me I bolted with it. Some clever lost youth spray painted on one car, 'éste no es Hollywood'. I was running as fast as possible.
It was racing into Royal Oak. Feet against gravel and sticks. Wheels on top of cold steel moving without effort or life. Pacing unrelentingly over everything.
Me trying to keep up with incomparable energy. Before it entered the city I quit. Looking back on it I think it was an attempt to recapture the same energy I had when I raced to Dan's house on the night of his end.
Fruitless, all that I was left with was exhaustion and sad anger for not being able to do it. A first signal that the past was slipping. I got run down by a cold machine. The summer was over.


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