I guess I would have to walk it again to really remember. Time and memory are such tyrants, they conspire to only let you down corridors that lead nowhere and reveal nothing. On a day like this I would have been going down the hill, possibly begging a ride but more likely walking, even then a walker.
I would have taken Williams Street, and it's odd that I should have forgotten the name of it when I was so well acquainted with it. Past the stores and under the highway, also past the old mill, closer to the river and the commercial center of town. Bank Street. But I wouldn't have gotten there, not today. It would have been windy and cold, I suppose; I wonder what I smelled. Exhaust, mostly, it would have been too far from the beach to get those smells, the briny ones and the aroma of decay. How long a walk was it, I wonder? Less than an hour, even weighed down with a little luggage and some records.
And then the train station. Richardsonian Romanesque, I learned, and apparently a pretty good example. Inside, though, it was nondescript, and I would have gotten my ticket and sat down to wait.
In a way, I'm still waiting.
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