The sulfur smell.
The spent ash, falling on our faces.
The resonance of the shrill whistle in our chests.
The lurching.
The early Autumn breeze and the late Summer sun at high altitude. (I got fried, totally disregarding the sun as I was comfortably in long sleeves.)
It was a beautiful day, altogether.
Tom, thought of you, and your lamenting the passing of the caboose in the name of practicality and faster commerce.
1 comment:
I will mourn the caboose forever, and even more so the thought that my daughter will never see the conductor standing at the back as the train goes rolling off to Roanoke.
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