Spring Lake is full of mansions, manicured lawns.
Broad sandy beaches, glistening waters.
A park and lake for which it’s named.
A small town of four or five blocks.
Shops, eateries, real estate agencies.
And trains rattling day and night.
From Manhattan toward Bay Head, back again.
Deep throated whoo whoo whoos,, announcing arrivals.
Two sounds you can count on:
rhythmic crashing of waves, thundering trains.
Many years ago, I sat cross legged on grass
with my first grandson.
Waiting for those cars to pass by,create winds, blow horns.
On rails snaking through residential streets, lawns.
When he heard the faintest whistle far away,
he brightened.
As it neared, vibrations on the ground animated
arms, legs.
He’d stand, jump, wave at passengers rumbling past.
Let’s wait for another, he’d beg.
So, we’d sit.
Wait.
Let the ocean call.
Let swings in the park pump up, pump down.
Let shopkeepers hawk their toys, cookies.
For Asher, watching trains was wondrous.
For me, the wonder, watching him.
Lynn Benjamin
July 19, 2021
