I love looking out at my old Huntley neighborhood in the morning. Spotting the occasional, unmistakable teardown. Seeing the twinkling light or the darkened house. Thinking and reflecting. Remembering putting pennies down on the track and running away for cover and coming back for the bent remnant. Remembering the devilish freedom of mischief night. Of Halloween, a two-day celebration. A disastrous, abandoned backyard sleepover in a tent below these same tracks, with Kurt Hall and another boy whose face I can half discern, but not his name; they who loved to spit and conduct liquid materials experiments a little too much.
I saw a woman today on the 8:48, my regular, after Millburn, as we made the express run to Newark. She was standing and I was about to offer her the empty seat next to mine, when I saw she was reading a red leather bound book. But when I saw her davaning, bending and bowing to God, I thought it best not to disturb her.
These same hills, these same Orange ridges. You used to be able to take a train to Binghamton or Buffalo or Chicago, right here from Summit. In a way, there was more commerce then, certainly along this right of way, this corridor of passengers and sidings, industry and freight.
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