Decay

Somewhere between then and now, the last train rumbled by. Like so many times before, the ground would have complained of its weight and the tracks would have screamed in protest. Without ceremony, an era has ended.

All along the railway path, the acrid scent of creosote hovers low above wooden ties baking in the afternoon sun. Perhaps the gravel bed yet wonders when the next train will pass, anticipating the next crushing assault that will never come. Perhaps the spikes enjoy the welcome respite from their task when, under the great shifting weight of the train, they strain to hold the track steady and true as they have done for more than one hundred years. Do they wonder at the time since the last train passed? Or do none sense the wear fading to rot?

Only weeks ago this path was safe passage for engines of blue and yellow towing their obedient ramshackle assortment of cars, each well-suited for their task though discolored by the unrelenting sun and clothed in ten thousand miles of dust and grime. Emblazoned with rail line logos, the payloads of wood and steel carried with them their tag-along graffiti passengers. Sent into the world like messages in bottles, they rode along with the wind against their faces to wherever fate would deliver them. They will not pass this way again.

Vigilant rail markers proudly proclaim their position to engineers who will never again make note of them in their logs. Once virile tracks, liquid in the sunlight, now forever sleep. Unwittingly, one last train made tombstones of each concrete pillar as she passed.

Rail marker number one hundred twenty-six
Born: 1902      Died: 2008

Here lies the remnant of a country's great potential: witness to the growth of her proud cities and witness to their decay. Once the strong backbone of a nation, she now lies quietly forgotten beneath brown, dried leaves. Her contribution to the world was invaluable - her passing - unnoticed.

There is rust on the rails.