It’s not quite a first-name basis, strictly nods and smiles, but with the occasional simulated steam whistle. The crew doesn’t know I’m leaving. Don’t tell.
I’ll miss the train, its crew, its miracles. Especially the miracles.
The time the mailman went postal, pegging packages at passengers like some serial St. Nick. The time we stopped on the beach in Malibu, right after Newark. The crew was surprised and apologetic. Everyone got off and took it easy.
It’s my last time on the train, for a while at least. Don’t tell the crew. Wait. Tell ‘em to keep their eyes open.