I can hear trains whistling over the phone with my father. Trains moving trough the industrial park by his house 3,000 miles west of here. It makes West lonely. It makes me ache for memories of being surrounded by that sound each night. Trains in the night that sometimes shook the house. I can picture his arms, now thin and sagging, leaning against the kitchen table, he’s talking fast, biopsy incision freshly sewn up.
Trains have always sounded like moans of grief, calling out. Where are we going?