I am seated on a folding chair inside the patio room my grandfather built. It is August, and the sun is fighting its way thru drowsy clouds that trudge upriver like mules. Everything is as I remember it in 1974. The wet breeze. The buzz of motorboats. The bodies of gnats at the feet of the window screens. Even the folding Tole-style dinner tray and my old Sony transistor radio. But there are flaws. The ceiling is cracked, and insects have made their home there. Rainwater, tho now gone, has left the mark of its intrusion. The fireplace stones have been removed. My grandfather says it had to be done. He and my grandmother are seated across the metal picnic table from me. They appear old, tired, their faces nearly identical, as those who have aged together are said to do. I am vaguely aware that my grandfather had suffered a heart attack several years earlier, tho we don't discuss it. I am about to ask whether the trains still run on the old branch line behind the trailer, when I hear an unmistakable growl of a diesel's approach. I can see the train cross a bridge to the north then tread the raised embankment a few hundred yards away. "We're going to be hauling that out of here soon," my grandfather tells me, gesturing toward the trailer. The train rumbles past, a string of aged locomotives and weary, graffiti-tagged hoppers. Somehow I know this is the last time I'll visit this place.