Sleeping in

We inherently thank people for whatever they have done before we depart.

If I could have asked for one more moment to lie under my sheets, wrapped up in my thoughts, the Promise Ring spinning at 33 rpm on the table next to me, I would be forever grateful. However, today is overcast, the sky promises rain. I can see the branches swaying back and forth anxiously outside my window, and it is time to wake up.

My mom took me the grocery store yesterday. Our feet paced nervously up and down tiled aisles looking for the things that would keep best: nuts, dried fruits, and whole grains. Her face looked worn with the wears of motherhood. Torn from lack of companionship, and the ungratefulness of her kin. If I had more courage, perhaps I could have reached out and touched her arm. Instead we shopped in silence, our hands touching the worn out cart, cartons of cereal, packaging shipped by freight. Once or twice I thought I heard her choke nervously as we weaved our way around the store.

It would be our last time, I think gently to myself as I pull my slacks up. It is not the grocery store, and I am no longer a child in lady-bug mittens, sucking orange juice from a cup with green handles. My mother is at the foot of the stairs, she is holding my backpack. We will sit in silence again in the car. She will return to the house, she will see our town again, everything familiar, the beach, market street, generations and generations of children.

We pull up to the freight yard. "I love you Al," I avert my eyes, "you too mom," and get out of the car.

There is a man in a reflective vest. I throw my pack over my shoulders and walk towards him.
"Excuse me?" He doesn't hear me. I puff out my chest:
"Excuse me?" He turns around. His face is hard from years of labor, the scruff on his neck is dark with collected dust and sweat.
"How can I help you?" I try to explain, knowing the extent of the law, and the liability of his job.
"I need a train. I need to go west," and after a pause I add, "I have no money."
"Who are you?"
"I don't rightly know, Sir"
"This train here will take you as far as Chicago, I will be done with this car in a moment, If you give me a hand I'll wedge the door open for you."

I climb into the boxcar and he hands me a bag of grain. I push my weight against the stack and throw it to the top.

"Good luck, kid," he says with disdain and wedges a scrap of lumber into the boxcar door. A few minutes later, I feel a stir and the train begins to push forward. I listen to it hum against the rails and adjust to watch as everything flies by the door. There are children playing where I once had lived. There are teenager girls walking to school, flirting in that way only teenage girls can flirt. There are business men in suits walking to the train station.

The air feels wet, I am glad for the shelter. I think about my bed, and about the Promise Ring LP still clicking on the turntable at 33, somewhere, in some room. The distance is fleeting, I wont be back.