Before prickly weeds and red poppies overwhelmed the tracks, there was a train; Me and Dina, the cab and the caboose — her hands on my shoulders, the two of us marching in tandem down the dandelion-dappled rails. The local punks' cigarette butts and empty beer bottles kicked out of our way, evening sky pink as her cheeks, my sweatshirt pouch pocket spotted with grease, stuffed with the tater tots I snuck off my plate at supper.
Chugga-chugga — Dina's palm open and closed, open and closed, as I passed one cold crispy potato after another over my shoulder to her. The woo-woo she'd holler before popping them into her mouth. My fist raised in the air, tugging on our locomotive's make-believe whistle. BFFs chugging along, schoolyard bullies and fickle fathers forgotten in the whistle-stop hours between dinnertime and dusk.
Woo-woo, chugga-chugga — to the end of the line, till that summer the weeds grew so thick we couldn't stomp our way through anymore. Dina sent off to live with a new family, in some other town. Our station swallowed whole by the overgrowth.
After she left, I still went down to those tracks. When the sky blushed just right. Red rain boots parading through the weeds, fist raised high in the air, tugging on that imaginary whistle. Woo-woo. Every holler a hope — that wherever Dina ended up, she had a train chugging along beside her, one big and made of steel, able to keep her safe, take her wherever she needed to go — that my dear friend finally had all the tater tots she could ever want.
Kendra Cardin creates safe harbors with her poetry and storytelling. Her writings have found homes in a variety of publications including those of Neither Fish Nor Foul, Temple In A City, Necessary Fiction, Five Minutes, and Cowboy Jamboree.
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