Art: Marie Dashkova
February
Many of our life giving rituals are deeply private,
whether repeated daily or annually, they gift
us some sort of solace. A good snow crunching
walk late at night seems to do it for me. If I
could, preferably down the old train tracks
stretching through the woods just behind my
childhood home.
The train used to travel to Atlas, a small
town just north of us, carrying passengers
and cargo. I used to stand there on winter
nights and imagine an icy train running back
through the woods, reclaiming the tracks it
had once lost. The forest no doubt looked
different back then. The metal railways
that once laid on the ground had been
pulled up and sold off, and the wooden
beams had rotten away. You were lucky
even on the brightest of summer days
to find an old rusty peg or two sticking
up from the ground.
We used to tell stories about a young
girl who had died on the tracks. We half
convinced ourselves on many nights
playing capture the flag, that we had
heard her ghostly screams.
I wanted to see her, standing there in
the snow, bundled up in a long red coat
and a small carry on. I’d walk alongside
the tracks, looking back over my shoulder
every so often, trying to catch her out of
the corner of my eye. Perhaps she’d have
some advice we all do not deserve.
Art: Marie Dashkova