Lullaby

Even before you can see the train, the tracks start to sing, a siren call I can’t completely ignore. I don’t think I’d go out like that though, the idea of getting hit by a train sounds painful.

Isn’t it strange how the physical body still fights for life even when the mind has let go. Blood clots, lungs gasp for air, limbs try to flail back to safety. Killing yourself isn’t cowardice, it’s a war against your every reflex, your every cell. But, of course, in war, there are no winners, not really. Someone always loses something.

Is my body electric? I don’t always hear its song, but I do hear the tracks sing. I sing the railroad electric. Some people might hear a warning.

I hear a lullaby.

I can hear the train from my kitchen window. Not the tracks, but the muted rumble as the train rolls through town, too fast, too busy to stop. Sometimes the horn blows; that means someone is on the tracks. Usually it’s someone rushing to cross, too impatient or too intoxicated to wait. But once in a while, it’s a sailor on the rocks, a willing audience to the siren’s song.

Not me.

Not yet.

Maybe I’ll stay out of the water, safely out of reach. I’m not a great swimmer. I’m better on land.

Usually.

I think.

What do any of us really know about ourselves anyway? I hate that I sometimes feel like the tracks know me better than I know myself. They know what I won’t admit I want. They sing to me, soft and sweet. Waiting.

Always waiting.