Train Station

Train stations can be mundane.
They can blur into the background of your daily life, existing simply to get you somewhere else.
They can be goodbyes. Tearful ones protrayed in old movies with the woman or man hanging out of the window, waving frantically, their loved one watching them fade from the very edge of the platform.
I sat perched on the edge of my seat attempting to read my book.

“Crowding me in my own bed, my mother talked her greatest fears aloud.”*

The train is delayed four minutes.
There’s a sharp siren, then a readjustment of the sign.

“Crowding me in my own bed, my mother talked her greatest fears aloud.”

The two ladies standing just under the cover of the glass box sheltering us from the rain discuss the fiasco of the last evening’s commute. Their accent is thicker than I am used to and thus harder to ignore.

“Crowding me in my own bed, my mother talked her greatest fears aloud.”

Two minutes.
The woman next to me is wearing a fabulously bohemian long cloak and knitting using a large plastic ring like I used to use to make endless knitted tubes as a child. That was a Christmas present, I think.

“Crowding me in my own bed, my mother talked her greatest fears aloud.”

A train pulls into the station.
I check the doors, to see if anyone is standing in anticipation of them opening.
There’s no one… wait. There. The last car.

A smile. A name. A quick pull of a scarf and a kiss, brief for the sake of the amorphous crowd of black winter coats and umbrellas that reforms around this disturbance.

For them this is any other eight am commute.

* From Silver Sparrow by Tayari Jones

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This entry was posted in Grad School, UK 2011-2012 and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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