The Pennsylvanian Amtrak
May 12, 2023
I’m on the Amtrak, snaking my way through the Pennsylvanian countryside. We head inland. The Susquehanna River shrinks into the Juniata as my mind is rushed back to my childhood, the bright green trees and lush farmland cueing scenes of running barefoot on our gravel road and playing hide-and-go-seek in the cornfields.
This is where I roamed free: picking black raspberries, climbing trees, lathering myself up with mud. Where every year, we tried to construct a little dam in the hopes of deepening our pond, and every year, the creek flowed a bit more resolutely. I learned to ride a bike here, weed whack, “drive” a tractor, plant a garden. I ran down the lane to my bus stop, fell, and picked myself up again. I watched lightning crack over the mountains through the wide, wide windows of our summer kitchen and danced freely in the June thunderstorms. I sledded behind the barn and fed corn cobs and watermelon rinds to the cows, as they lazily flicked their tails and paid me no heed. I listened for the pulse of the electric fence, practiced my archery skills on a bale of hay, and rolled down the hill–arms crossed over my chest, surrendering myself to gravity.
I could call this place my home, but I often hesitate to claim it. Yet this landscape soothes an ache that resides deep in my soul. The soft, forested hills slink by in my periphery as I am shaken from my reverie; the throngs of maple trees welcome me home.
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