River Walk, Upstate Town
Ryan F. Love
You can hear the rumble if you stand on the tracks between the abandoned station and the abandoned animal feed factory. It’s a tractor trailer on Route 17, but you can imagine otherwise, imagine freight that was made here, loaded here, galloping along these rails. Passengers, even. But the feed factory didn’t sell at auction last year, and they tore down the rotting station. Still, my mind’s sitting inside it, watching a woman with a flowered hat and lacey green dress step into a caboose. It’s a dress I saw in the Salvation Army before it closed, too.
I stand up because my daughter scampers down the slope with dandelions and violets in her fist, stopping her momentum with the crossing gate’s post. We walk beneath the overpass toward the river. The water is low and the grass she skips through high. You can find good stones near the bridge. She pries one out of the dried mud and throws it half sidearm. It plops. I hand her a flatter one, get another for myself. I get three hops and she gets a splash; her dominant hand still clutches the treasured purples and yellows. She’s stooped to free another rock when the man emerges from the shadow of the bridge. I can see his pack now, tucked behind a support beam.
“Want to see something?” he asks. He’s my father’s age, but bearded and in worn flannel. My daughter watches, my hand on her shoulder, while he kneels down and examines the ground. The man holds up a stone, brushes grime from it onto his calloused palm. “What’s your name?”
She’s quiet. “This is Laurel,” I tell him.
He smiles. “Laurel, I need your help. Hold your pretty flowers up above your head.” Her arm raises. “Real high, like the clouds, and then wave them in a circle.” Her arm extends, her Velcro shoes on tiptoes.
The man reaches back, his arm flashes forward, and ripple, ripple, ripple, ripple ringlets cascade past counting down the river, miniscule droplets falling outside circles while the stone defies whatever it must to ripple through yesterdays to the horizon.
Ryan F. Love
You can hear the rumble if you stand on the tracks between the abandoned station and the abandoned animal feed factory. It’s a tractor trailer on Route 17, but you can imagine otherwise, imagine freight that was made here, loaded here, galloping along these rails. Passengers, even. But the feed factory didn’t sell at auction last year, and they tore down the rotting station. Still, my mind’s sitting inside it, watching a woman with a flowered hat and lacey green dress step into a caboose. It’s a dress I saw in the Salvation Army before it closed, too.
I stand up because my daughter scampers down the slope with dandelions and violets in her fist, stopping her momentum with the crossing gate’s post. We walk beneath the overpass toward the river. The water is low and the grass she skips through high. You can find good stones near the bridge. She pries one out of the dried mud and throws it half sidearm. It plops. I hand her a flatter one, get another for myself. I get three hops and she gets a splash; her dominant hand still clutches the treasured purples and yellows. She’s stooped to free another rock when the man emerges from the shadow of the bridge. I can see his pack now, tucked behind a support beam.
“Want to see something?” he asks. He’s my father’s age, but bearded and in worn flannel. My daughter watches, my hand on her shoulder, while he kneels down and examines the ground. The man holds up a stone, brushes grime from it onto his calloused palm. “What’s your name?”
She’s quiet. “This is Laurel,” I tell him.
He smiles. “Laurel, I need your help. Hold your pretty flowers up above your head.” Her arm raises. “Real high, like the clouds, and then wave them in a circle.” Her arm extends, her Velcro shoes on tiptoes.
The man reaches back, his arm flashes forward, and ripple, ripple, ripple, ripple ringlets cascade past counting down the river, miniscule droplets falling outside circles while the stone defies whatever it must to ripple through yesterdays to the horizon.
