Growing up in a small railroad town, on top of a hill, I could always hear the trains from my bedroom window. Not the living by the tracks kind of thunder, mind you. Just the aforementioned top of the hill knowing they were always there. Forever background noise.
I never knew how much of my being that sound meant to me until my partner and I moved into our house on Merino St. in Lexington nearly a decade ago and I heard them again. From our bedroom now, I can hear the trains of commerce (not just coal) as they gently and furiously roll across the vapid city terrain of Lexington into my very ear and soul.
"I can hear my trains," I say to him on a clear latenight spring evening, when the windows are up and we both will suffer from allergies the following morning.
And I sleep soundly. Because I am home.