Short stories

Waiting for the Train

I sat ever so poised on a smooth grey rock, my feet melted into the gravel beside the tracks. I heard the roar and the whooshing from the train, and the clattering sound slowly gained volume. I saw a woman wearing a mint green coat with fur lining the inside, keeping her protected from the brisk winds. She had a double stroller, one seat next to the other. It was the kind for toddlers who get too tired walking but are too old to sit in the stroller. Toddlers are like the amusement park riders they have to make signs for since some people stick their limbs out of the ride. However, there was only one toddler sitting in the stroller. The blaring noise screeches, which means it is safe to assume that it will be coming any minute now. The toddler, who happens to be wearing a coat as green as grass, covers his ears. He cups each of his hands around each ear. As the noise grew even louder, he flattened out his hands, tightly sealing his palms to his ears. All at once, the train approaches in full force. I knew the train was coming. I have sat here hundreds of times; I know what to expect, but it still catches me off guard every time. The train seems to pass in slow motion. One cart links to another, like the red little monkey toys. All holding on, grasping onto one another, clinging to what they know. Why do I still flinch when the train passes? Why did the young boy flinch when the wind created a tunnel around him? He had his ears covered, he was prepared for the train’s arrival, yet he was still caught off guard when the train passed. The mom said something to the boy. I squinted and tried to read her lips. The boy removed his hands from his head and nodded. All the calmness reentered his body, as if the rollercoaster ride was over. He could breathe again. He propped himself up in the stroller and sat down facing the train. His mom silently smiled as she stood behind the stroller. She never smiled like that at the boy. So why does she wait until he can’t see her? The woman returned to her usual stoic self, turned the stroller around, and began walking to the parking lot. Is this what living is?

How much is too much? What would be too little? Who do I give this power to to criticize me and let their thoughts drive my actions? I sat at my desk, with a cheap mechanical pencil in one hand and a blank notepad in the other. I hate this part, the thinking part. The part that makes me look in the mirror and point out each flaw. The work could be really good or really bad. Both scare me, can it be neither? If I don’t listen to what others have to say about me, then why should I listen to you? Each contradiction twists and tangles like an old jewelry box filled with delicate necklaces.

This will be the best time of your life! Oh my, well, this is a rough time for everyone. Time flies when you are having fun! You will look back later and wish you had. Maybe this is the best of times to live in the worst of times. Maybe this is the worst times of the best of times? Wouldn’t that be great? Waking up each day, knowing it will get better even if that process is slow. Knowing that wherever you go, someone wants or needs you there. Talking to someone who doesn’t let your words roll off their slippery back. Someone who chooses you, who loves you for you. Not just the version of yourself you present to the public, but the true, nasty, deeply authentic self. Someone who will laugh when you mess up, since in their eyes, you can do no wrong. Someone who thinks of you throughout the day, as much as you think about them. All is balanced in what balance means to you and that person. It can be lonely watching everyone latch on and flee the family land. They love me, but not enough to stay. Not enough to sit down and truly listen. But I have to remind myself that it is all because they do love me. Not many people may feel love towards me, but that is okay. The people who know my true, authentic self love me, which is better than receiving copious amounts of love for who I pretend to be.

I am surrounded by love and care, yet I feel so alone. I listen to the water slowly drip down the concrete walls as my cold, bare feet anchor me down. No matter who is in the room, the water will continue to drip. But maybe I will have a beautiful, lush garden among this cold, dark, concrete.