Thoughts on the Train

  The night is young and the wind runs cold. Leaves spin and twist— a macabre dance of new-fallen death. Down the block, children go door to door, knocks and squeals, tricks or treats tumbling from small hands. Up the road beyond the circle, the graveyard begins— walled in, stone-sure, like the bodies that lie interred six feet under. Some say that on this single night—All Hallows’ Eve— the dead rise to frighten. But while the masks and props try to startle, some of the dead only want a new view. They rise around us—those who won’t sleep— to watch, to laugh, to smile, even without teeth. They carry the weight of old Halloweens: their own childhoods, their children’s costumes, that sweet mix of fear and fun, and the families time has thinned. They watch and they smile; some even sway, bones creaking, teeth chattering, a little music in the chill. Death can be frightening. Maybe it’s simply the next bend in the path, and we walk it with the ones we love...

’Twas the night before Halloween, and all through the night porch lights were trembling, lanterns a shaky bright. Windows breathed fog, old bones on the sill clacked— shadows moved quick where the sidewalks were cracked. It’s Halloween and all through the night… people are running, running from ICE. Without a care for the kids, the Constitution, or us, ICE continues to “follow orders,” though they know it’s nuts. Bootsteps like thunder on stairwells of brick, masks cover faces that find this not a trick.  Doorbells that once rang for laugher and treats now echo with dread down the row-house streets. Pumpkins still grin but their smiles feel thin; a siren sounds tightly where laughter had been. Mothers hold memories, fathers hold breath, children hold hands in the hush before heft. Yet neighbors pass candles from window to door, warm palms say “with you,” and “not anymore.” We stitch up the dark with a stubborn small light, a chorus of porch bulbs refusing the night. And if fear com...

The fog lifts; uncertainty thins. Light slices through like an avenging angel’s blade, piercing the dark. Today arrives. Yesterday loosens into memory. Tomorrow waits as a dream. My heart is light; my head, heavy. So much to think, and more to do. The body bargains with the warm protection of quilts and covers. I stretch—like a butterfly working free of its chrysalis. Legs swing over the bed, meeting cold, hard floor. Summer has slipped away; the morning chill heralds autumn, a preface to winter. Time and age voice their objections; my joints creak as I rise. The air hums as the element wakes the water. Steam ribbons upward; scalding water crosses roasted beans— my morning, my lifeblood, my wakefulness. I smell. I sip. Heat singes my tongue; the familiar drug floods my body, waking every part. Nothing added. Time to begin.

Adulthood taught me this. Rent is due whether I’m ready or not. Emails pile up. Promotions pass by. I’ve sat through layoffs, reorgs, managers who didn’t see me, and the quiet ache of “we went in another direction.” I updated the résumé, asked for feedback, learned new skills, and kept going. That was me saving me. I’ve made bad choices in relationships—texted back when I should’ve let it end, explained myself to silence, stayed for potential instead of reality. I ignored red flags because hope felt easier than change. I’ve also learned to say no, to leave sooner, to pick partners who show up without needing a script. Boundaries are not walls; they’re doors I control. Illness stripped away pretending. Waiting rooms, tests, results, side effects, fear that wakes at 3 a.m. I kept appointments, took the meds, asked hard questions, told the truth about pain, accepted help when it was wise. Resilience is not magic; it’s a spreadsheet of small choices made daily. There have been real j...

Today, I choose the quiet work of getting better. Yesterday’s weight is real, but it isn’t a verdict. It’s a teacher—soft-spoken, persistent—leaving notes in the margins: try again, breathe deeper, be kinder. I carry those notes into morning like pockets full of seeds. With each small act—one honest word, one brave boundary, one quiet mercy—I plant what I hope to harvest later. If the sky is gray, I make my own light. If the wind is sharp, I turn my face and keep walking. Progress doesn’t thunder; it whispers. It’s the steady pulse under ordinary hours, the way frost yields to sun, the way a river learns its bend by touching the same stones until they smooth. Today will be better than yesterday because I’ll choose a step, a breath, a better choice. And tomorrow will be better than today because I’ll keep going—learning, forgiving, adjusting the course by inches. This is how mountains move: one faithful inch at a time.

Night lays a hand on the window, and the kettle hums its small promise. I set my phone face-down, listen to the dogs settle, and breathe until the room remembers me.  Outside, leaves loosen their grip without regret. Inside, I practice the same—opening my palm, not to let go of anything in particular, but to stop clutching at shadows left behind by thoughts. Somewhere between the whistle of the kettle and the quiet after, a truth arrives without knocking: I am allowed to want a life that answers back. The clock ticks its small permission as I slip into bed—naked to the night, like the day I was born. I close my eyes and feel the dogs’ warm weight as they turn, find their circles of comfort, and drift; I follow them into a dream where I walk alone down a windy cobblestone street, looking side to side for light, for warmth, for love. In the distance a soft glow erodes the darkness, slowly roiling toward me along the stones, and through its golden shroud I see bountiful trees and tall...

  The sun rises over frozen ground, dew hardened to frost as autumn yields to winter.  Honeysuckle slips into sleep, waiting for the spring sun to rouse it again.  Winter begins with the last leaf’s fall. Night comes sooner; each breath gathers into a smoky mist. Puffer coats, scarves, and gloves become necessary evils as the temperature keeps dropping.  Under clear skies the stars sharpen while wind whistles down the avenue. Indoors, the familiar clang of the heat fades, and soon crocuses and daffodils push through as winter loosens into spring.  Then the honeysuckle blooms again, its color ready to become an artist’s muse.

There comes a moment when the noise begins to fade — Not because the world has quieted, but because you’ve learned to listen differently. Growth doesn’t arrive with fanfare. It happens in the soft spaces — in the pauses between doubt and courage, in the choice to keep showing up, even when you no longer recognize who you’ve become. Rediscovery isn’t about finding someone new. It’s about returning to the person who’s always been there — beneath the layers of expectation, beneath the weight of trying to be enough. And when you finally meet yourself again — unarmored, unfiltered, you realize you were never lost. You were simply becoming.

April 17, 2029 — Washington, D.C. For weeks now, whispers have echoed through the marbled halls of the West Wing. Lights flicker in perfect rhythm. Doors slam without wind. And late at night, the Resolute Desk hums with a sound eerily like a growl. This morning, the White House confirmed what had been rumored since March: a full-scale exorcism is underway. An Unholy Inheritance Officials close to the President describe the disturbances as “a lingering darkness” — not of faith, but of legacy. One senior aide, speaking on condition of anonymity, said bluntly: “Whatever this is, it didn’t start with us. We think it’s what was left behind… from the Trump years.” The phrasing has already taken root in headlines: The Evil Left Behind. Some staffers claim the hauntings began after archivists reopened a sealed storage room in the basement early this year — one containing leftover furniture, framed photographs, and boxes marked “Transition 2021.” Since that day, aides report ic...