Early morning train station. Memories flicker in and out. Can’t distinguish the real from the imagined anymore. I think you are real. I have memories of warm sunny days and cold winter nights. Driving. Always driving somewhere.
The train rolls along, not caring about memories, only it’s destination. I should as well, but the fugue of the memory plays a sweet melody. I look at an older Asian woman, clutching her hand bag in the frigid air. I wonder if she saw the horrors of the Vietnam war. I wonder if she is the little girl pictured, running down the road. Door opens and I thought it was you getting back on, even though promises were made that you would never ride the train again. Looks like you have kept your word.
The priest has moved on. Not sure when he left the train. Not sure about a lot of things. Paper crinkles me awake from a memory of my grandmother,paper alarm clock rings me awake. Cold morning and whether I like it or not, the memories swirl like a wind. I can’t capture just one, but many.
If they say they love you. Don’t believe them. If he says he is yours, close your eyes and smile, silently and think of the fire.