And the muddy boy’s summer days lasted forever. The only plan ever to cross his mind was to one day, but not any particular day, be a spaceman or jump a train and be a railroad man.

How many of those endless days were spent snoozing by the cement and steel trestle looking at the countless heavy cars roll by, and how many warm nights spent looking up at the planets and stars.

This old man’s summer flashes in less than a wink. Is it because the boy lived entrenched in the moment while I’m greedily counting my remaining days, hoarding my remaining moments, like cards close to my chest, never fully present, always stumbling between the past and the future. Never here, never now.

One day, I don’t remember the day, but it was a just day and for no reason I can recall I lost the fascination with fishworms and trying to fix everything with tape and bicycles with shifters perfectly placed to neuter me. I traded the desire to fly in space with learning to drive a truck and shift a duplex B-Model Mack. Most of this, maybe all of this had something to do with girls and beer money.

When the beer money ran out and wasn’t enough I became a criminal. And there are things to enjoy about being a criminal, but not a lot and not for a long time. As a criminal I learned to fear both the days past and their stories as much as the days to come and what they will hold. I skated too much, too much for the law, too much for my own good. I touched by the law, but never caught. That’s not a good thing. It made me feel invincible and special. Truth me told I’m just lucky and white.

The days of being a criminal came to a quieter end than I deserved and I never did make it into space. I’m washed in a sadness today that I never did hop that train, never even tried. But the long drawn whistle that once called me to great adventure and spectacular things today issues a mournful fading wail and I realize the cars that are passing me now are gone forever and they ain’t ever coming back.

Sometime between the endless days of that muddy boy and fleeting days of the old man I realize I’ve that in all that noise and rage and turmoil and anxiety and planning and failure I’ve forgotten how to simply be.