We were at the old train depot, now defunct and used only as a storage space by its private owner. My son and I had permission to wander through it as they were preparing to renovate the building.
“What time is it, Daddy?”
“About three,” I said, looking at my pocket watch which had a steam engine imprinted on its face.
He gave a slight pause before asking, “About?”
“Yeah, it doesn’t keep time very well anymore, son.”
“I know why that is, Daddy. Wanna know?”
“Yeah, why is that?”
“Because the train doesn’t run here anymore, so time doesn’t matter all that much.”
“Makes sense to me, kiddo.”
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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