Tracks
by M. E. Silverman
My father and I take an express train to get away for a bit, going toward the city where lawns shimmer like lucky dimes and picket fences dazzle like first day clothes. We are about to move again but I have yet to find out. He lets me buy a candy treat— it’s not my birthday. I choose an American classic, horde it the whole time, sucking each chocolate piece into nightfall. He tells jokes until I almost choke and cough up candy. I point to cows and horses, wave at tractors and trucks, not caring we buzz by too fast for them to see. Sometimes another train swirls past; they must be heading in the wrong direction. This way leads to plastic playgrounds bursting red and blue. This way leads to the green promise of parks with floating dogs on long leashes, babies bouncing in those jogging strollers shaped like small ships. This way leads to sidewalks, shiny as hope—
we both stare as the sun sinks; the only breath left is our own. Or at least, this is how I feel, staring at roads and fields flipped to night by something larger than me. As we approach our turn-around stop, I close my eyes and pretend to map a path through the small crowd, bending between coats and containers, quickly shuffling the way adults do. We reach stairs or a ramp, take a cab or bus. It is dark but not dark. We walk close to the buildings, bathed in neon and smoke like an old movie. We cross at a corner, not waiting for the light to say go. I get a soda and smirk at other kids who walk one step behind their parents with nothing in their hands. When I look up, he turns to meet my gaze, tosses my hair and pats my head. He says alright because everything is alright. Together, my hand in his hand, we find our place—
I open my eyes. My candy is done, timed perfectly for the ride. On the other side of the smeared glass, rooftops wink silver; windows still awake look like waving tea lights. Billboards all echo the same joyful pledges. Tired, I lean on his chest. The train cradles through tunnels, hums like a Sunday song. He whispers one of his bedtime quotes: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” My eyes drift half shut. He drapes his thick, golden arm around me; we leave the city’s steady halo, with nothing left to see.
M. E. Silverman had 2 books of poems published and co-edited Bloomsbury’s Anthology of Contemporary Jewish American Poetry, New Voices: Contemporary Writers Confronting the Holocaust, and 101 Jewish Poems for the Third Millennium. @4ME2Silver