Monday, November 26, 2012

Archaeological Dig of a Memory

Seen on the Metra Train to Evanston at about 8:15 a.m.

The ghosts of their fingertips linger on the frosty windows. The roar of the train is loud, but their silence is louder. Oily sweat, strands of hair are smeared on the orange naugahyde seats. So many artifacts of a commuter civilization long since departed.

Today's story/prose poem is crazy short because there was nobody else in my Metra car. Except my dad, of course, but I can't very well pretend to know him, seeing as I've known him my whole life. You know how it is. I used the word "naugahyde" because my dad said that was the material the train seats were made of. When I looked it up at work, though, I discovered that naugahyde is actually just a brand of fake leather. Still, I liked the word, so I kept it. My apologies to Metra if their seats are not truly made of naugahyde.

I hope you all had a lovely and delicious Thanksgiving. Mine was very nice. I went on a grad school applications submissions binge, so all my electronic applications are finally complete! I just have to send in a few more paper copies of things, and I am FINISHED. Then there's just the waiting...

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