I grew up in a large neighborhood off an even larger street in Charlotte. The train was consistent—vague then loud then screaming until it disappeared, suddenly unexposed.
When I was 6, I’d wake up to the train and often not be able to fall back asleep. I’d watch TV, eat a bowl of cereal and wait for the house to buzz with life.
When I was 10, I’d hear the same 4am train howl through the window and cover my ears with a pillow but it never really helped. I had to wait for the sound to muffle on its own.
When I was 16, the roar sounded like home. It put me to sleep. I relaxed in its musical pattern and often waited on it before I could close my eyes.
The train became part of the neighborhood, my house, my routine, and my childhood. Still, on nights when I can’t sleep, I think of the train’s lyrical sirens and the sweet harmonies of my youth.
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