A Dream About Trains, and About Him

When I was in college I used to ride the train from New Orleans to Chicago.  I'd stay up all night listening to old black women getting on in Mississippi in the dead of night and talking in slow voices all night long about how they can never sleep on trains, and about what he did to her, and things that were a shame.  Their voices were slow and kind and maternal, but strong as hell.

When the sun came up I'd be somewhere where I could see light gathering over central Illinois, miles of flat golden countryside, sometimes blanketed in snow.  To my southern eyes, even after years of blizzards and shoveling the dorm parking lot, it was like a moonscape, all the stranger for the way it was so familiar to others.

When the train hit the terminus it was always crowded.  I'd read Carl Sandburg's poem about the place, and if Chicago were now more about bonds than hogs, it was still the place to be, a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities, a destination, and for me and my fellow travelers, the end of the line.   But there's always somewhere else to go.

In my dream that end of the line is lined with tables like the French Market at home, people hawking things and offering them to us at bargain prices. 

My son is standing near the end of the line of passenger cars.  He arrived some time ago, and hasn't left the station.  He sees me watching him in a crowd of people.  He gives me his sign of discomfort, his right shoulder rising about two inches so he can hide behind it, his defense against the world, a shield against everything from criticism to uncertainty to ridicule to physical harm.

It is impossible to say how sad I am to see him there alone.  I feel alone too, with him.  I come up to him.

"Oh, hi, dad," he says, embarrassed to see me for no good reason I can think of.  "I'm just... here."

Yeah.  We are both just... here.

"I have a few dollars.  I was going to catch the train later.  I don't know where.   I'm alright.  There's a coffee shop here where I can get a cup of coffee.... for a couple of dollars."  He finishes lamely.

I want to stay.  My train is leaving.  I would give anything to let it go without me.

Comments

[Sandra]

Good parents always want to ease travails of the journey for their children. I think the hardest part of being a parent is accepting that our children must travel alone; we can never, no matter how willing we may be, ride their train for them.

I read over this little paragraph several times, hoping to make is sound less flippant and cliche. Really, I mean that my heart feels the same ache, the same "I would give my life, if only I could, even knowing that it wouldn't make a difference" as you describe.

[Otter]

Thanks for that, Sandra. Good words, and deeply appreciated.