Our death; the end of the line for us/ repost, edit 1

Our death; the end of the line for us/ repost, edit 1

fiction
edward w pritchard

Once we played in the band and others jostled to hear us play and to see us in our bright new band uniforms.

Now at the end of life for us, marching far up over the hill,
the music we played is barely heard, the music of life fades as we leave those we loved behind on our journey.

Look at your legs? Do you still wear the striped band pants?
Does your head still wear the high hat?

The music you played during your life was sweet while it lasted. Now the music sinks, waves of noise that come and go but no one can hear the music you make.

Concentrate on the crunch of your feet in the gravel as you march,
struggling to get up over the steep hill.

It's the end of the line for you. Your life is over.

There is a forgetting for you. How did you get here? You are at a small train station.

At the end of the line we are standing at a small train station with a bag or two. The train we rode in on rumbles as it continues on its way, full of passengers, going on with it's run.

It's the end of the line for us. We won't be continuing life's journey.

We stand at the station not sure where to go and slowly the realization comes that it's the end of the line for us. Maybe we watch the train head off down the tracks before we reach for our bags. Maybe we look one last time back up the tracks to where the train came from.

Everyone likes to listen to the sound of train whistle for as long as it's audible when it's the end of the line for us.

When it's the end of the line for us we stand silently at the station straining our senses to hear the sound of the train whistle that bought us here moaning off into perpetuity.