I heard the children in the yard, a train, then birds
The sounds melt together in my mind and wrap me in a memory that doesn’t really belong to me. The children, the generation before me, played by the railroad tracks up on a hill my father describes as an idyllic fantasy playground in their otherwise downtrodden, immigrant neighborhood. The train whistle would blow and the earth would shake as it passed by on a regular schedule, near Second Street in Harrison, New York in the 1940’s. I imagine games centered around armies and battles (when such things were glorified), while peaceful birds circled overhead, singing a song that inspired a lifetime of music for these forlorn children.