The Train Passed By My House When I Was Six

When I was a little girl, I thought the train was sentient because it cried mournfully whenever it came near my house. Wonk! Wonk! Wonk! Wonk! It bellowed out its melancholy greeting each afternoon at two and we conversed in the language of loneliness. How I wanted to crawl into one of those rusty orange boxes, curl up with the cargo, most likely cattle on their way to Amarillo for slaughter. Knees tucked beneath chin, arms interlocked around ankles, rocking rhythmically. A fetus safely ensconced in an iron womb. But the train never stopped for me. Like life and opportunity, it passed us by. Like my father it was a cold machine, wholly incapable of feeling.