"Frank, don't forget your sketches. I loaded them in the new tube your father bought you."
"I know, mom. I won't forget."
"Be careful in the city. You know how..."
"Mom, I'm 23. I'll be fine. Can you just....just..." Seeing her face fall, he changes tack, "Thanks for all the help. I love you, mom."
The wind whips around his boyish locks, and he repeatedly pushes them out. Spring days were made for better things than fetching the mail, he thinks. The bend in the creek is gurgling out to be fished. The poplars in the park are swaying hello, offering shade for a dreamy nap. Surely, one of the Westley girls is out for a walk by this time of day, eager to be wooed by a sonnet or clever turn of couplets.
A thick envelope grabs Frank's attention and won't let go. This is it. This is the one. His eyes wander to the house, searching out the eager souls within. There in the breeze he opens the missive, dreading the possibility heralded by the thickness of the thing and the official university seal by the return address.
Hands in pockets, not a care in the world, Frank sways gently on the platform. His grin is unanswered by his fellow travelers, but he does not care. Destinations uknown call him forward. Life is an open book, just waiting to be written by his eager pen. Still, habits die hard, and he traces the graceful, sturdy lines of the station's design.
He should sketch it, lock it away for use as an architect, like his beloved namesake, beloved by his mother and father. But his pencils are in the hands of an eager child on his way to Baltimore. And the tube of technical drawings is standing upright in the waste bin by track 3. And Franklin L. Wright is on his way to nowhere in particular.