I was 6 and 7 and 8, on the floor in a sleeping bag, scratchy blankets. At Viggy's farm for the week, where there weren't enough beds and it was always chilly enough for the fireplace at night. And at 4 a.m., snuggled against a sister or brother, tip of my nose cold, I'd hear the trains clicking by in the distance.

I'd forgotten about the farm for the longest time. Last night we were bundled up, skin cold and warm and a tangle of limbs. We talked and touched and paused and listened. The train went by; rumble rumble clickety click; and in that instant I was young again. Cozy and silent; safe.