TheBanyanTree: The Train

[Monique Young]

It was the train.

Not a bus, nor a plane, nor even a car alongside the road with the windows
rolled up and the headlights shining through the cold dark night.

It was the train we dared along the tracks, walking and slipping in the
evening dusk, our shoes making slapping sounds against the rock of the train
bed, the distant cry of the train a warning we would not have heeded if we'd
bothered to listen, more of a background noise to our chatter, our
conversational solipstic tricks, the words tumbling around and about, the
air between us charged wtih the static electricity of two souls becoming
acquainted once again, as if we'd met in a different lifetime, on a
different day, and only now could we go foward with our thoughts and dreams
before us like a bright shining path that would carry us forward into the
next day.

And th train kept coming, the tracks beneath our feet vibrating with the
sound we could not hear, or perhaps might have if we'd chosen to, but we did
not, I so intent on hearing you talk of your first love and how she'd left
you, befeft as a student at age 20, you looking after as her Harley sped
away from you, her last words being, "You're not enough," as if you had
somehow to be more than you were to keep her interest, how you felt empty
and diminished, not as strong, not as sufficient, as you had felt the day
before when you had been enough, when the world had been bright and ready.
It turned to grey right then, in front of you,the landscape losing the light
as if dark clouds were overhead, but there were none, there was nothing,
just blue skies and the seeming emptiness of a life stretching out before
you where nothing would ever matter quite so much again.

But you knew it would pass, or hoped it might, but still feared it might
not, that those last words of hers would never leave and so poison you for
others.

And as I listened the train came closer, the vibration drowning the tingling
I felt when I was close you, the way I felt myself move closer to you
without meaning to, and you remarked upon it, "The train is coming, it's
almost here," and I nodded my assent, knowing that each time the train came
past you thought of being on it, of being a way from me and all that we
shared because the burden of it was too much, the knowledge of it gnawed at
you at night while you slept by my side, your dreams of the open road cut
short by wanting to leave, yet wanting to stay by my side.

I knew all this, knew that you wanted away while wanting to stay, and felt
guilty for keeping you while feelingy glad you had not left. Still, I knew
the possiiblity of it would never leave, that one day you might be gone,
whether on the train, by car, by bus, the mode didn't matter, only the fact
of it, the absence of your heart from mine.

"Yes, I know," I said out loud, but you didn't hear me because the train was
coming faster towards us now, no faster than before but seeming to because
of its proximity. I trembled, hating the thought of the train, feeling a
sudden intense desire to be under its wheels when it passed by, I know not
why -- was it certainty I wanted, absoluteness? But the feeling passed as
quicky as it came, and we moved off the tracks and to the side, looking at
the train appraoching so quickly yet with plenty of time.

And you pulled me close to you, coming from behind me, you put both arms
around me, held me close and whispered in my ear, "I will always love you,"
and even though the train was upon us then I heard it, I felt the words go
through me quickly and cleanly, but the feeling they brought to me settled
warmly and calmly upon my heart, a singular sensation of peace and
acceptance.

The train continued past, a blur of metal boxcards, the heavy wind blowing
my hair back into your face, sand blowing thorugh the air, covering us with
a thin fine coating of dust that we would later wash off, but not the memory
of it. Our skins would retain the memory of that sand as we would retain the
memory of the train rushing past, speed, light, and sound combining into
something we would later not be able to define.

Later we would make love, then fall asleep together, my head on your chest,
your arms around me. In the night I would turn away from you, turning myself
into a self-contained ball, and you would stretch yourself out full-length,
tossing the covers aside to land on me, but nothing else would change, not
the memory of the train, or your love for me, and in the morning we would go
on with our lives as if nothing had changed because nothing had, and, at the
same time, everything had.




Batman


Monique Young
Young Business Solutions
(425) 772-6218
www.youngbusinesssolutions.com