A passing

She had always yearned to live by the water.  She would be piercingly reminded of this when they traveled from Portland to Seattle by train passing for a luxuriant half hour from Olympia to Tacoma on the grey, silent South Sound with McNeil Island, home of an old federal prison, heaving it's black green body out of the stillness of the water. If it was a lucky ride they would pass the whole way with their sight unhindered by a train hurling south, and they would pass by the graceful span of the new Point Defiance Bridge, then through a tunnel and and then pass the Port of Tacoma with its freighters lolling in the waters, its shipping cranes, its inescapable graffiti on the bunches of rail cars and warehouses, and then the train would leave the Sound and her desire for life lived at water's edge would evaporate once again.

Running into Hemingway

I have a correction of one of those maddening typos: I wrote "Hemingway,s going to write" or something like that. It should have been "Hemingway's struggle to write."