On Details

The first time I met my grandmother, I was six years old.  My mother, my sister and I, traveled by train from San Francisco to Rosario Mexico, where my grandmother lived. It was the first time both my sister and I had been in a train.  I remember listening to the metal sounds of the wheels as they turned faster and faster, as the visions from my tiny window became a blur. The first train, for we must have traveled in at least four different trains before we arrived at my grandmother’s house, smelled like it was washed with soap, the kind of soap my mother used to wash clothes.  All the seats were made of some soft material, and all very clean.  When the train whistle began whistling, I knew we were approaching another station.  This meant more people.  I didn’t really see anyone leaving the train, only getting into it.  I remember being annoyed at having to give up my seat to an old lady, nevertheless I managed a smile, because my mother was staring at me.  My mom had eyes that talked, she didn’t have to say a word and I got her message.

 

 

 

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