The Future in Repose

Cecil Morris

At 3 he lies on the floor, his face pressed to carpet, his eyes on the wooden train his hand drives over and over, an arc of imagination consuming him, his attention held, his too busy limbs stilled, the forth and back and forth of birch block, the turning of black wheels, the silver hubs, unrolling some story only he sees. Folding laundry across from him, I watch my son and see how he has left my world, embarked already on his own journey on invented rails that curve through future valleys, that cleave distant mountain passes. I pat his shirts flat, smooth his narrow pants, picture myself as graffiti-covered boxcar: rusting but still rolling, not quite forgotten freight drawn by his small engine.