Rebecca Hecht

Moonshine on the trolley

Of course, the trolleys no longer ran down this hill, but she thought about them every time she navigated over the old tracks ensconced in the black tar of the streets. Each day as she crossed the intersection and stepped onto the granite curb of Lexington Avenue, she could not help but allow her memory to run, hand in hand with her imagination; to hear the clang of the bell in her mind. She would hop on, skip up the steps, grasping the brass rail with one daintily gloved hand, the other clutched begrudgingly in her older brother's fist. They would ride down the hill each Saturday, to the end of the line, walking the last half mile to the old farm.