When I was a child the bridge over these tracks was an old wooden bridge, worn and bleached out from the hot South GA. sun ,with rusty nails holding it together and a few loose boards. My grandmother lived a block from the bridge. As children, when we heard the train whistle blowing farther down the tracks through the tall Georgia pines, it was saying "I'm almost there, hurry! hurry! Im almost... there!!" We would drop what ever we were doing and run as fast as we could and stand on the bridge as the train rumble inches from our small dirty bare feet, out of breath from running so fast, and hands grasping the bridges railing. The massive power of the train vibrating through our bodies was thrilling and scary at the same time.
I don't find myself running towards life so much these days and things seem more scary than thrilling. But if I close my eyes, I find that freckled faced little girl who was happy just being Carmen and that's a good place to be, however brief my memory serves me.