When I open my widows in Harlem, I can hear the Metro North train whistle. It’s embedded in city noises: sirens, music, spirited arguments, subway rumble, and traffic clamor. But my Smiggles ear picks it out. It brings me back to those hot summer nights when the only sounds I heard from my open window were crickets and the distant train whistle. I remember the feeling of longing that lodged just below my heart as I lay in bed unable to sleep. The Metro North whistle triggers that spot but I no longer have the same longing. I’ve been where that train is going, where it comes from, and beyond. I’ll surely go further before I pass into the next life.
Smiggles is many places, places of this world, and not of this world. Smiggles is part of me, a fantom place, a derelict village on a on an abandoned railroad track.
Can you hear the whistle?