Twenty Six

She walked into an oncoming train on the east side of St Paul. It was a warm, quiet, lovely August day: tailor made for trips to the lake.

But she walked into an oncoming train.

The engineer said she saw the train coming at her.
She didn't seem to care.
He hit the whistle hard but he said she just kept walking toward him.
She put her head down and kept walking,
right into that lumbering column of steel.
He shook his head and turned away,
as this 26-year old walked out of her life.

Twenty six years. They were not good ones, not all. They couldn't have been. This was the way she chose to make that clear.

Good-bye young lady. No judgments here.
You did what you did, and only you know why.

But 26 years. That's the number I can't shake.

I see a blonde-haired, fair-skinned woman with sad brown eyes wearing a T-shirt and faded jeans, walking in sandals. A father's "little girl."

The photo we have of ourselves at 26 is often the photo we prefer. Life is all possibility and our spirts are alive with independence and youthful energy.
Friends are everywhere and summer's are for coming together and helping each other move, or celebrating our first real job. Pizza and beer and laughs, late nights and bright mornings.

She stepped onto the tracks. She couldn't know when the train was due. We don't know how much time she had to think about life and living, or death. The train came around the corner. The conductor figured she'd see him and step off the tracks. When the blaring whistle did nothing, when it barely registered with her, he knew too well what he was dealing with. She did him the favor of not looking into his eyes. She tilted her head down and let the train sweep her into eternity.

Twenty-six years ago there was a new born. Somebody's child.

Who were you?