The tracks seem so lonely at night, that’s one of the things he likes about coming here – the solitude. Most kids his age would rather hang out with their friends, or go to a party. But not him, he likes the quiet of the night and the silence of the tracks. He’s been coming here as often as he can since he was knee high to a grasshopper, that’s what his gramps says. His grandfather is the only one who knows about his late night forays to the station. It’s their secret, has been for the better part of fourteen years. Yeah, it’s lonely out here at night, but that’s alright with him.
He walks the fifty yards or so down the tracks to the last lamp post past the junction and sits down, sketch book in hand. One day, after he becomes famous, he’s going to come back here and draw that lamp post, and the view back to the station – well, the shack that holds the automatic ticket dispenser and bench that everyone calls a station. But for tonight, his last night before going off to college, he’ll sit and draw like he’s done every other night. Once his pencil starts moving, his hand will know what to do.
Looking down at what he’s sketched, he thinks to himself, not too bad. He’s happy, but stiff and sore. He needs to get home and catch a cat nap before helping his mom set up for the going away party she’s planning for him. Stretching to his feet, he relishes the smell of the predawn musk that hangs in the air – there’s nothing like it, and he knows he’ll miss it when he’s away. Collecting his knapsack, still looking down at the drawing, he starts heading back to the junction.
(part one of two… tomorrow, ‘D’, will be part two)
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