As a child I spent most summer holidays away from home. My parents would rent a house somewhere and stayed as much as their work would allow them to. The rest of the time I’d be with my grandma, who would come along with us and didn’t have to go back to professional obligations.
Once they rented a house close to the village where my dad was born. My grandma and I would spend the early night outside, taking advantage of the cool breeze. The woman next door would soon join us and engage in long conversations with my grandma, which I, in my inherent child shyness, would listen in silence.
By the end of the lane, at a very short distance, a wall. On the other side of the wall railway tracks. Every now and then a train would pass by. Each and every time that happened our neighbour would stop chatting and paid attention to the typical roar as if she was looking for something.
In one of those occasions with the roar a whistle from the engine came along. “That’s my husband”, she said. “That’s for me…” .