Postcard from another life

We were both on the same train, the countryside steadily unrolling green through a humid morning. There are some kinds of uncertainty that don’t ask for resolution. Like not being able to remember who fell asleep first. Or if we bought from hawkers a bag of roasted corn, or a packet of boiled quail eggs. In those days there were no toilets, not even a separate baggage coach. Someone played music from a portable radio. We were on our way to the beach, or returning from there. Everyone was on some kind of holiday though it was the middle of the week. The aisles were speckled with little bits of sand— gritty sugar sifting into our sandals. The sea was a postcard announcing itself before we arrived: its mineral smell, and then at last thin white lines of moving text glimpsed through trees.


In response to Via Negativa: Sandbar.

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