I sat on a green bench in the train station, shivering because of the cold. I awaited my train patiently and passed the time by reading my notes. People passed me left and right, but I paid no attention to their faces. They were nothing but redundant passersby who I’d never seen before and would never see again.
Shortly after I arrived at the station, I heard my ride approaching from deep in the dark tunnel. The train lights illuminated the tracks in front of me. I closed my book and tapped my left foot vehemently, nervously waiting for the train to stop. I always got nervous awaiting a train. The thing about trains is, sometimes you’ll board them and take a casual trip to some destination and forget all about the train that got you there, but other times the trains are memorable, being filled with humor and adventure. I remember those trains forever. Fear overcame me as I faced this train. It could be beautiful and filled with charm, with glorious memories to be made, or it could be wretched. The unknown is what frightened me; well, frightened may be inaccurate, but the unknown certainly made me nervous.
The tracks started to click and clack as the train approached. There was a song the tracks were singing, but I did not know the words. The train halted before me, and I picked up my books and notes and walked toward it. When the doors opened, I took a deep breath, girded up courage, put my big boy britches on, and got aboard.
As I took my first couple of steps on the train, I was pleasantly surprised. This train was welcoming. From the outside, it passed as a normal train; certainly not ugly, but nothing extraordinary. However, the interior was stunning. I felt relaxed on this train, almost as if I were home, whatever home means. Perhaps the feeling I felt on this train was peace.
I sat in the middle of the train car, making myself home. Plopping my books down next to me and sinking into my seat, I pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and started taking notes. It was always customary for me to take notes of every train I rode. I don’t recall when I picked this habit up, or why I do it, but I do. I supposed it’s just a peculiar habit that I picked up somewhere along the way. And so, I looked around, searching for qualities to write about. My eyes wandered down the car and out the window. I noted everything. On the train, I just read my books, took my notes, and enjoyed the ride. It was peaceful. The train complimented me in every way possible. For example, on every train, I develop the urge to write. If the seat wasn’t comfortable, or the ceiling was too short, if the environment wasn’t welcoming, I couldn’t write. However, this train was pleasant, and I carefully took notes.
As soon as the notes started piling up, though, I looked out the window and saw the end of the track approaching. The curious thing about my train rides is, I never have a particular designation in mind. One could say I am just there for the ride. It seemed like I just got on the train, had gotten comfortable and, just as I started enjoying the ride, the end of the line was in sight. This ride was over. My heart sank as if this train had a conscience. As if the train was human and I was enjoying its company. Perhaps that’s why I do all the peculiar things I do; riding trains simply for the ride and taking notes. To me, trains are like friends, and the notes I take of them are memories. I board the train without a destination in mind, merely for the ride, and after boarding the train, no matter how much I love it, the track will always come to an end. Then I must gather my notes, pick up my books, get off the train, and say goodbye.
Once again, I sit there alone on a green bench in the middle of the station. There, I look over my notes; My detailed notes of the train. Every day, I ride a new train and say goodbye to an old one. But that’s okay because the train has to keep on rolling. It does not mean trains can’t be enjoyed, but they’re not meant to stay with you forever. Trains are there to provide you with comfort during the crazy ride of life. Then the train is gone forever, and you sit alone on a green bench, just you and your notes. Just you and your memories.
I find myself once again, in the all too familiar scene, sitting there alone on a green bench reading over my memories, waiting for the next train. It comes rolling down the tracks, clicking and clacking, humming the familiar song. And now, I think I finally know the words. It’s not a song to me, but a song to the passengers:
“Goodbye, goodbye. This is the end of the line. Goodbye!”
Asher Sisneros 