TIMES

I got off the train halfway home and stepped into the sunshine of Spring’s warmth and a scent of a dissipated ocean fog, just lifted.

I was in no hurry, I had some time yet until my next appointment. On the platform towards the front, an elderly man of medium height stands in Native North American garb staring in closely at the locomotive engine, wheels and wires above. His clothing appears cotton, perhaps also made from agave or deerskin, I cannot tell other than it is authentic. I walk towards him in mindless curiosity and just then to my right, another is passing with a longer gait and widening arms of embrace. He is taller, far younger wearing a dark suit, rattlesnake boots and a raven black ponytail that rests on his broad youthful shoulders.

They embrace for a long moment.

‘Father!’
‘Son.’

‘Is good to see you Dakota, you look fit and your mom will be proud. How was trip from filthy city?’

‘It was just fine Father. The railroads are far more reliable now’

His father now looks right towards the slowly passing rail cars of the departing locomotive and just shrugs.

I am pretending to check my phone just to the side and behind and love the blood bond of the reconnected and am also instantly intrigued by the observed gap of generational acceptance towards the change of times gone by and all things within.

The tall younger(Dakota) asks: ‘How is Songaa? Does he have a game today? Can we still make it or his practice?’

To this, his father turns back swiftly with new found spirit and pronounces: ‘Songaa scored four goals yesterday against rich prep school … and plays another today from different religion.’

Dakota has smiled down to his father with some hesitation and reminds:
‘Father, that is great but we must not let ourselves speak in ways which paint men differently by wealth,race or religion’.

I am now not even checking my phone, just still and listening as if in wait for the next train to arrive in two hours.

‘You speak with reason my Dakota and truth has always come easily with you. Which is why I refrained from saying: Songaa beat the white man yesterday in our very own tribal game.’

To which they both, after a pause, laugh lightly and Dakota says:

‘Ok father, lets go.’

                                                                   Sent from 📞 🚂. . .

© All rights reserved 2018

Author: Breck Masterson

Tales From The Rail is a collection of short stories revealed in observation during a commuters journey across this land. Most, if not all stories are based on what actually happened or at times, surmised to what might have happened. . . Granting on some occasions, levity to the mundane. Enjoy! View all posts by Breck Masterson