Metaphor is the name of a wish that kept on starting and reaching the end of the line. The line started with a mistake, and the stations were marked with uncertainty. There was a train station in Metaphor and the wind howled. The howling wind and the rage of a girl named Meredith were married, carrying a wedding bouquet, a sob, a moan, and a wail that broke both down. Throw the bouquet, choke on the rice. Run.
When Meredith and the wind left town together there were hot sand and thrashing palm trees. The tracks ran from town to town, fast then slow, and the wind crossed the tracks, scar tissue holding the wounded together, pa-chunk, pa-chunk, through the long white nights. The music at the station was carried by dry sand, wind snaking through the open door of the El Dorado, 11 p.m. on a Saturday night in a small town in Nowhere, Arizona, where people came to run away and stayed until the next morning or until their teeth fell out and the keys to the jail dropped from their senseless fingers. Nowhere served a lot of breakfast, hope in the a.m. over easy with English muffin and a tiny glass of orange juice. Morning is different than night, Meredith found. Meredith learned more than she’d expected in Nowhere.
Trains run from Metaphor to Nowhere to Hope to Sweetwater to Euphoria to Paradise. Meredith rode them all, getting off finally in Future, California, where the trees bore coconuts and the lemon grass was bright and the smell of salt water was sweet. She bought pineapple with her first paycheck. She never looked back, not at the howling wind or the mistaken station, only forward at the trees waving on the boulevard near the ocean that promised salty sweet salty sweet, warm sand on damp toes, stars in the sky.