I try to paint pictures with words, pictures that encourage the reader to become the camera lens or the observer or even a participant. Many years ago, I had neighbors who had both been born and raised in Latvia during WWII. The husband's mother had died in the early years of the war and his father was away fighting in the Russian Army so the young boy was left to live with his grandparents in the Latvian countryside. One night in May after watching the Kentucky Derby on TV, we all sat out on our patio drinking Mint Juleps, and talking, as old friends do, recounting stories that grew more personal as the liquor flowed. The man, who is the boy in my story, recounted the time of living with his grandparents. I was haunted by the images he created and, later that night, wrote this story that reflected my understanding of what he felt. These are my words but it was his life and all these years later, I can still remember exactly the look on his face as he recalled that time in his personal history. The Night Train He overlaps the waffled cot That makes his summer bed, His night star shining faintly On the blond hair on his head. He listens for the cadence, The sound of marching men, Afraid that if he sleeps he'll miss Them passing ten by ten. Without a dream, he lays there, Dark a chamber in the night, Wishing he were home again With welcomed sounds and sights. And then into the quiet comes The mournful climbing sound Of the train that travels nightly Toward an ever distant town. In his youthful mind he conjures At just a moment's will The images of people On a journey up that hill. A man who's firmly holding In the curve of his strong arm, A child who's sleeping soundly, Protected, safe and warm. And then there is the mother Whose hand is gently pressed Upon the nursing baby Held so closely to her breast. A soldier in a uniform Is talking to a girl Who smiles into his laughing eyes, No thought of warring worlds. The conductor passes down the aisle Without a nod or wave; He's there to do his duty and To see that all have paid. The little boy's mind wanders To the engine up ahead Where they stoke the burning fires Feeding coal to steel and lead His mind can see the swells of steam, The stack atop the car. He watches as it rounds the bend And travels fast afar. The solitary whistle blows It's song into the night, The only sound across the fields To stir an owl to flight. Toward sleep, he hears his father's words, Kept safe within his heart, The promise that he's loved although The war keeps them apart. His eyes begin to sink into The hollows of his cheeks; He dreams himself a pleasant place Where boys play hide and seek. His train soon will be passing Through another little town And another boy will listen To the story of it's sound May 1973
