The Train from Sihnon to Milagro

The train goes from Sihnon to Milagro, and it stops only three times over the entire distance. It takes a day to make it to Milagro, so long that we the passengers all sit with our board games and crosswords in front of us, children quiet and engrossed in books, and the elderly reminisce as the same trees from their youth pass them by again, seventy years since they saw sprouts and budding oak.

The conductor walks down and up the aisle, occasionally asking someone from another car to show their ticket. "Bonjour, mademoiselle. Avez-vous ton billet de train?" They never seem to mind. I would mind. Slightly. I wouldn't be booted from the train for not having a ticket, but I would be detained and fined once we reached Milagro.

Outside the window, autumn nears. The trees are still green but for a few that begin to fade early in late August. Some forts pass us by. And some ponds. A family of deer made a home out of a fort that resided uphill from a pond. I could see all of this from the bridge as we passed by, perhaps ten or so meters above the Earth in some flimsy, man-made wooden structure. All the people on this dozen-car train are taking for granted the thought that we're separated from falling to death by some wooden beams nailed together by our grandfathers during the reconstruction. I'm sure termites have eaten away most of the old battens keeping the bridge from tipping over to the right as we curve. Maybe we'll fall.

About three years ago, I wasn't in the country. I lived in the desert. I had a pet salamander that would come to me when I called for it. It was a raspberry salamander, and if I said to it "come, Salamander," then Salamander would come. It was a smart amphibian, I liked it for its loyalty, and I don't think that salamanders, or desert creatures at all, are known for their dedication to their masters. This salamander was.

My mother wanted to move to Arizona, in the United States. I never understood why, but I went with her anyway. I mean, sure, what other choice did I have? And with that, we moved to Arizona. She opened up a shop by the highway, and it turned out to be a popular tourist stop for the cars traveling by. But the road was mostly the passage of truckers and cyclists. There was no need for them to buy jerky. They could make their own, I think.

Maybe Salamander was drawn to the jerky. I fed him some of our newest concoctions as I came up with them. I'll be honest, though, most were of the same variety. It was beef jerky cooked in barbecue sauce, beef jerky cooked in worcester sauce, beef jerky fried (we never sold that one), beef jerky with sea salt.

But this salamander didn't think much of the different shades of the same color. The jerky was jerky, and Salamander would lick a bit before scuttling around for a few minutes and climbing up some cacti. I miss that thing.

".. Monsieur? Ton billet, monsiuer?" Oh, shit.