Greg on the train

I watched him as we chugged along. Our window was open and the refreshing Fillmore breeze blew in and played with his hair. I felt like we were so far away from home. In a way we were, being surrounded by fields, mountains and nurtured orchards, so unlike the concrete, tar and detours of the city under constant construction.

The train’s wheels resounded with the repetitive pattern of steel on steel, and I got sentimental for a time and era that was never mine. But he’s mine, I thought to myself. He was ours, and I cherished moments like this, knowing they were as fleeting as the lush landscape that passed us by.

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