Post by Ramona on Sept 20, 2004 12:56:16 GMT -8
I took a quick glance at my hands. My tight grip had pulled the skin on the back of my hands taut, flaunting the blue of my veins. The ridges on my knuckles were clearly defined and paled. Next to me, Dad sat toying with his cell phone.
“Loosen up a little,” he grunted, not moving his eyes off the screen.
I obeyed, and felt my fingers stretch out a little before clasping onto the wheel again, this time with an easier grip. Dad flipped the cover over the mobile and motioned his chin for me to start. I exhaled a puff of air and looked beyond the windshield. The parking lot in front of me was nearly full, but in reality, there weren’t many cars. It was simply a small lot in a small station, for a dying means of transportation. Not many people took the rail, nowadays.
Before me, an old, cramped platform set upon a concrete slab stole my view. Even from far away, I could see the spots on the shelter-top and the support columns where the paint had chipped off and the rust took over. Leading up to the platform were a set of stairs patched with several old pieces of blackened gum, accompanied by hand rails whose coat matched the columns. To the left of the platform, there was a hill, twenty feet high at its peak. Half of it had been blasted and paved over to form a cement wall, which overlooked the parking lot. Off to the right, a side ramp connected to the platform jutted away into three sharp bends. I knew the bends well, because I had ridden them as a child. You see, the station was my Place of Firsts, and it had been my favorite place. I had lived in a house two-minutes down the street, so everyday Mom would walk my brother and me to my favorite place before dinner to watch the 5:30 roll in.
I remember clutching to Mom’s hand and peering down at the tracks, rusted deep orange from age. Bubbles of excitement rose form the back of my throat when the sounds of heavy rumbles electrified the air and shook the ground. When the train whistled its arrival, I heard the crone of a colossal dragon, one whose wings gusted up dust storms and bits of gravel until my eyes hurt too much to stay open. As the dragon passed, his rider would always toss sugary treats at my feet, before helping his passengers off. After collecting my prize, I would recede back onto the hill with Mom to watch the faces disappear into cars and drive away. Those years marked the beginning of my fascination for watching people.
When I was seven, Mom brought me to the station, this time with a new bike. By then, the thrill of the train wasn’t as awe striking as it used to be, but I hadn’t outgrown my favorite place by any means. The lot was now rolling plains, and my bike a fiery stead. Day after day, I would tame the beast until it was broken to my will. On my mount, I would race my brother down the ramps, twisting effortlessly around the sharp bends. I invited my friends to my favorite place and we would climb the big hill, encouraging each other to make it to the top. Mom would sit at the foot and read.
I was ten, and now my favorite place didn’t seem so big anymore. I dared myself to stand with my toes right at the edge of the platform, as the 5:30 surged by like a hurricane. I climbed the hill with ease, and even dangled my legs over the drop - something my former fearful self would never have had the courage to do. I was ten and the lot was a racetrack, and the skates on my feet were the wind. Each day I blew by the competition faster and faster until the wind became my feet, and I felt that I was faster than even the dragon. Mom would stay home, waiting for my return.
I’m fifteen and we’ve long since moved from the house two minutes down the street. Sometimes, out of a whim of nostalgia, I beg Mom or Dad to drive me back, so I can challenge the dragon once again, or sit on the hill, swinging my legs over the drop as I watch the faces disappear. In truth, my favorite place seems a lot smaller now that I’ve tasted The World. But it is still my favorite place, after all. It is my Place of Firsts, and if I can, I want to do everything First, here.
I looked form the train station to Dad and sucked in air.
“Your first drive,” Dad sighed, half to himself. “You’ve grown so much. I hope you’re not too old to watch the trains, like when you were little.”<br>“Never.”<br>I hit the gas and felt the wheels turn beneath me, for the First time.
This is an essay written by a friend of mine, or an iNternet aquaintance, it was for a grade in school. I thought it was absolutely beautiful, so i just had to post it here.
“Loosen up a little,” he grunted, not moving his eyes off the screen.
I obeyed, and felt my fingers stretch out a little before clasping onto the wheel again, this time with an easier grip. Dad flipped the cover over the mobile and motioned his chin for me to start. I exhaled a puff of air and looked beyond the windshield. The parking lot in front of me was nearly full, but in reality, there weren’t many cars. It was simply a small lot in a small station, for a dying means of transportation. Not many people took the rail, nowadays.
Before me, an old, cramped platform set upon a concrete slab stole my view. Even from far away, I could see the spots on the shelter-top and the support columns where the paint had chipped off and the rust took over. Leading up to the platform were a set of stairs patched with several old pieces of blackened gum, accompanied by hand rails whose coat matched the columns. To the left of the platform, there was a hill, twenty feet high at its peak. Half of it had been blasted and paved over to form a cement wall, which overlooked the parking lot. Off to the right, a side ramp connected to the platform jutted away into three sharp bends. I knew the bends well, because I had ridden them as a child. You see, the station was my Place of Firsts, and it had been my favorite place. I had lived in a house two-minutes down the street, so everyday Mom would walk my brother and me to my favorite place before dinner to watch the 5:30 roll in.
I remember clutching to Mom’s hand and peering down at the tracks, rusted deep orange from age. Bubbles of excitement rose form the back of my throat when the sounds of heavy rumbles electrified the air and shook the ground. When the train whistled its arrival, I heard the crone of a colossal dragon, one whose wings gusted up dust storms and bits of gravel until my eyes hurt too much to stay open. As the dragon passed, his rider would always toss sugary treats at my feet, before helping his passengers off. After collecting my prize, I would recede back onto the hill with Mom to watch the faces disappear into cars and drive away. Those years marked the beginning of my fascination for watching people.
When I was seven, Mom brought me to the station, this time with a new bike. By then, the thrill of the train wasn’t as awe striking as it used to be, but I hadn’t outgrown my favorite place by any means. The lot was now rolling plains, and my bike a fiery stead. Day after day, I would tame the beast until it was broken to my will. On my mount, I would race my brother down the ramps, twisting effortlessly around the sharp bends. I invited my friends to my favorite place and we would climb the big hill, encouraging each other to make it to the top. Mom would sit at the foot and read.
I was ten, and now my favorite place didn’t seem so big anymore. I dared myself to stand with my toes right at the edge of the platform, as the 5:30 surged by like a hurricane. I climbed the hill with ease, and even dangled my legs over the drop - something my former fearful self would never have had the courage to do. I was ten and the lot was a racetrack, and the skates on my feet were the wind. Each day I blew by the competition faster and faster until the wind became my feet, and I felt that I was faster than even the dragon. Mom would stay home, waiting for my return.
I’m fifteen and we’ve long since moved from the house two minutes down the street. Sometimes, out of a whim of nostalgia, I beg Mom or Dad to drive me back, so I can challenge the dragon once again, or sit on the hill, swinging my legs over the drop as I watch the faces disappear. In truth, my favorite place seems a lot smaller now that I’ve tasted The World. But it is still my favorite place, after all. It is my Place of Firsts, and if I can, I want to do everything First, here.
I looked form the train station to Dad and sucked in air.
“Your first drive,” Dad sighed, half to himself. “You’ve grown so much. I hope you’re not too old to watch the trains, like when you were little.”<br>“Never.”<br>I hit the gas and felt the wheels turn beneath me, for the First time.
This is an essay written by a friend of mine, or an iNternet aquaintance, it was for a grade in school. I thought it was absolutely beautiful, so i just had to post it here.