Livora Gracely

Every family needs a destination.
Ours simply enjoys the journey first.

Nobody remembered who built the little train.

Grandpa claimed it had always existed.

Grandma claimed Grandpa had simply forgotten buying it.

Both explanations sounded equally reliable.

Every Saturday morning, the tiny white pony arrived outside Grandma’s garden.

It wore its harness with remarkable pride.

The harness wasn’t especially impressive.

The pride was.

Grandpa checked every wheel.

He carried a pocket watch.

Nobody knew why.

The train had never once followed a timetable.

It followed grandchildren.

They were considerably less predictable.

Grandma climbed into the first carriage.

Very carefully.

Not because she feared the ride.

Because every proper passenger deserved a graceful entrance.

The two grandchildren hurried into the next carriage.

One carried a toy telescope.

The other carried three biscuits.

History suggested the biscuits would prove more useful.

Grandpa cleared his throat.

“All aboard!”

The pony twitched one ear.

This was apparently the official signal.

Off they went.

Very slowly.

Nobody complained.

The sparrows flew alongside for a while.

A rabbit saluted from the vegetable garden.

The baker stepped outside and waved with a flour-covered hand.

The train answered with one cheerful whistle.

Grandpa insisted whistles improved every journey.

Nobody had collected enough evidence to disagree.

Halfway around the village, the pony stopped beside the old oak tree.

Grandpa consulted his pocket watch.

“We’re exactly on time.”

Grandma looked around.

“For what?”

Grandpa smiled.

“For enjoying this view.”

Everyone agreed that was an excellent appointment.

The children shared their biscuits.

The pony accepted one.

Grandma poured tea from the little flask she always carried.

Even the breeze seemed in no particular hurry.

By afternoon they rolled gently back toward the garden gate.

The trip had lasted nearly three hours.

The railway itself was barely long enough to finish in ten minutes.

Nobody mentioned this.

Distance had never been responsible for the memories.

As Grandpa unhooked the pony, one grandchild asked,

“Where shall we go next Saturday?”

Grandpa looked down the familiar little track.

“We’ll decide after the whistle.”

The pony lifted its head proudly.

It had already begun practicing.