Below is a poem I wrote while winding through the hills of California on my way to Santa Barbara, on the train. Train trips are these spaces of magic, where the people around you become your community, a microcosm of the good in the world.
On this trip I was interested to see the old telephone wires with their glass caps to prevent electricity burning up the telephone poles. I saw a whale slowly gliding through the waves on the most beautiful stretch of coast, colored with succulents in full bloom. I saw a huge prison and tiny people. I saw artichokes growing freely with cows spread sparsely through the gentle hills.
I finished reading two books. I got a love note. My flip phone was stolen and my neighbors turned into a detective troop to try, in vain, to get it back. I heard the stories of a woman who went to live with and care for her aging father in Mexico and consequently became the leader of an avocado orchard. I met a badass principal who was going back into the classroom to teach second graders. I had an unrequited crush on her brother and imagined what my life would be like if I was bold, or if my life was a romance film.
Big love to my Lola, who would plan our summer travels to include train rides and instilled in me the love of traveling, of connecting with strangers, and riding the Amtrak.
I’ve been doing a lot of dreaming lately,
thoughts wandering,
mind wondering,
thinking of what’s to come.
Will I wake up next to you
in the San Joaquin Valley?
Lemon trees growing along the
fence line,
that separates pasture from pasture.
Citrus so plump and lush,
branches bend
and a tangy scent dances in the breeze.
Will I squat down next to you,
with a garden rake in hand,
caring for the rows and rows
of tender shoots
pushing past the red, dusty earth
reaching towards and
unraveling in the sun.
Or will I just keep to dreaming,
scenes passing
this train I’m on singing,
giving me glimpses
of an infinite variety
of the choices that this world has
to offer.
Breanne Estelle 