I walked out the door this morning to the smell of cord wood burning off in the distance. Like a memory it lingered, the only physical reminder of all that was, just a night before.
The cool damp air held the scent, bringing back a rush of memories from bonfires past and time not wasted on friends. Their names and their faces forever young and always with me.
Somewhere, out on the edge of perception a train rumbles toward its destiny with time, the rhythmic thumps providing a baseline to my now small town life. I feel it move away, leaving me in its past.
If the future is for the young, and the past given to the old, then surely Rainy Grey Days must be reserved for those who dream one last time, of what might have been, what should have been or what could be once again.