Soon I leave my neighborhood of eighteen years. Rare is the day I don’t mutter the words, “I won’t miss this…”

That statement is a tired one and comes from a thoughtless place. For all its flaws, this home has been a good one. It’s the only one that could have been for me and my family, which makes it perfect, in its own flawed way.

I knew about the train tracks across the street when we bought the place; I even asked some neighbors about it before putting in the offer. The concern was the noise, which did take some getting used to. What we didn’t anticipate was the frequency with which we’d be held hostage in our own neighborhood by a train that doesn’t give a damn how many cars, trucks, or school buses it blocks from getting to the freeway, or for how long.

Twice yesterday I was victim to that antagonistic train, the second time on the heels of a lengthy run of errands. Bombing down 70th Ave, sunroof cracked, Stephen Wilson Jr’s Calico Creek blasting (acoustic version, the best version), and moments before reaching the tracks, the dreaded sound––Ding! Ding!, here she comes! Gates close like prison bars. Fifty train cars rumble past, bound for China, where they’ll be filled with crap we’ll all be buying off Amazon some day.

A string of expletives escapes me. I eye the cooling takeout in my backseat.
“I won’t miss this…”

Moments like this provide an opportunity. Most of us miss it. I know I usually do. Yesterday, I took it. I received it.
Sit still. Pay attention. A train is an ancient thing. When you watch one roll by, you will feel your soul depart to places you never thought you could go.

Perhaps I will miss it, just a little.