Retirement had the taste of bitter freedom, like the end of a long train ride that delivers us into a dreary night, each of us unfamiliar with our own legs.

I slapped shut the conductor’s door for the last time, and caressed the wrinkled paint, a rouge red with gold lining that long wilted into maroon and copper.

I remembered my first day in the front cabin, how I felt like a child sitting down for a slideshow of the world, who after every dark tunnel would click and present fresh mountains, lazy fields, and bustling towns. I closed my eyes and flicked through each station along my track, carefully placing them back into my memory like old family photos.

The thundering shush of an airplane woke me from my dream, and I found my foot lingering on the steps of my cabin, my boot laces cocking an eyebrow towards the controls.

“I’m sorry, friend,” I pulled myself away and began walking where iron wheels would not follow, into a land that sprawled like ocean, where in that boundless freedom all groped for direction.

I was sitting outside the station watching the pale impressionism of the park and picnic goers when Walter pulled up in a bright red buggy.

“Happy retirement Dad,” he hugged me and handed me the keys, “And I know this isn’t a two hundred metre train, but I thought… it’s about time you had something that was yours to drive”.

He ushered me into the driver’s seat, which was short but sturdy, and squeezed in beside me.

“So, where do you wanna go?” he asked.

I looked out onto the twisting roads, its beginnings and ends both hidden and secret, and started the familiar engine.

“Let’s find out,” I laughed, soon far away and lost.