Pulled back

It's late here. The back door is open. The turbo fan is running, pulling cooler air into the house in hopes of reducing the overall house temperature so that tomorrow's heat won't be too much of a battle. The little dog is snoring next to me. When she's too loud, I reach over and cover one of her nostrils, or caress her snout. I'm not sure which annoys her more.

Behind the fan noises and the dog snores, I can hear other sounds from the outside: freeway noises, other dogs in the distance.

And a train.

Growing up in Indiana, I lived close enough to train tracks to hear the trains as they ran by. One house, the one on the right side of the tracks, was close enough that on a summer night, with the windows open in hopes of some slight breeze to push the hot, thick air, I could hear the clicking of the train on the tracks, as well as the sound of the train's horn.

Tonight feels like one of those nights, and I'm pulled back to my childhood. Back to when everything was safe. When my mom and my dad were together, my brothers slept in the other room across the hall, and the hardest thing I had to do was learn my multiplication tables for the timed quizzes, because Brandon could complete his test in 48 seconds, we all watched him do so. The train horn sounding as it travelled through the town, letting people know of its passing.

I wonder if there were pennies on its track tonight.

Or how many cars the engine pulled.

Or the color of the caboose.

I guess red.