It stood as it always had; resolute, stalwart, in that old-fashioned way that modern buildings often failed to master. In forsaking the boring, square lines of function, he thought, modern architecture had also lost longevity and confidence.
He put the suitcase down and flexed his aching hand, remembering.
He hadn't seen this place for years, and it comforted him to stand across the rails from the platform and see the bright white of the paint, feel the solid reassurance of the timber-work.
So many chapters of his life were defined by this little station, this momentary yet vital stop on the long line between North and South.
Here was the memory of milk churns, cream churns, crates of fruit, groceries, bags of fertilizer. And suitcases. Here was where he had welcomed or fare-welled so many, where he had climbed aboard, or stood and waved as family, friends, or lovers had rolled away, both North and South.
Here was his memory of newspapers, telling of world events, and of gossips telling of local ones. This had been shelter from storms, shade from the summer sun, a sanctuary from the bullies, and later, a late-night lovers tryst.
As the Westering sun illumined the distant clouds, dwarfing this place that held so much, he picked up the case, smiled a fond farewell to this touch-stone of his life and walked toward the town....
his travelling days were done.
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