I sit on the fire escape most evenings now. It's my balcony, even if the landlord calls it a safety violation.
Down below, the trains rumble through town. I can hear them in my sleep, and on the dispatch headset, they're just another voice in the static.
Tonight I'm holding a tiny tulle pouch. Candied almonds from my wedding, forty-seven years ago. I've kept one in a shoebox all this time.
My granddaughter asked about it yesterday. 'Why do you still have that?' I told her it's a reminder that every choice is a kind of promise.
I wasn't supposed to be a dispatcher. I was a waitress at the diner by the tracks, but when the railroad wife who ran the board got sick, they needed someone who could keep their voice level.
That first payday, I bought myself a proper pair of boots. The ones I still wear on the fire escape, soles worn smooth from thinking.
People ask if I regret not leaving this town. I tell them every road I didn't take led me here, to this metal platform with a view of the yard, a grandchild sleeping inside, and a sugar almond in my pocket.