The Vibration of the 3:10 Mail Train

Dear Delyara, It’s 3:10 AM, and the express mail train is tearing down the tracks behind the eastern perimeter fence, making the cold tea in my plastic cup ripple with perfect, concentric circles. I always step outside onto the gravel to watch it pass. I look at the blurred yellow lights of the sorting carriages cutting through the wet fog, moving at a ferocious speed toward the northern hubs, carrying thousands of letters, packages, and lifelines across the country. There is a deep, heavy loneliness in watching something move with so much purpose while you are completely fixed to a single patch of concrete. The sound fades away into the mist, leaving the silence behind the fence line feeling twice as heavy as it did before the whistle blew.