Swaying a bit as it rocks side to side, moving ever forward, the train has a steady purr. Sometimes it deepens into a growl: I think the track is a little less smooth at those times. Or perhaps it only wants to remind us that it is alive – and powerful. It is not a meek beast, this monster of heat and metal. Tamed for today, it rumbles occasionally to draw attention to its own power.
Here inside, the purring, mumbling, onward, onward is joined in the chorus by all of these other parts. Doors, windows, luggage shelfs, seat backs, roof panels: grumbling a bit, breathing loudly in tune. They make their presence known as well, call to mind a child's contraption. Blocks and plastic pieces, cast off string and bottle caps, perhaps a spoon from mother's drawer. Spliced together, they provide the course for marbles, cars, and sometimes rocks, but those don't roll as well. It works: you've seen it. The magic is in the held-in breath, exhaled only after the race has run its course without catastrophe. This car runs a more stable course, but still, it makes you wonder when you hear the constant shaking.
Then there is the door. Well, two of them actually. The one behind keeps quiet, the older sibling winning at that dastardly game: “Don't talk first!” It opens sometimes, it must. You can never catch it blinking, but there, and again, people appear and shuffle their way through. There are many of them who wander this path, this last leg of the pilgrimage between coach and dining car. Their passage is marked, time and again, by the solo of that other door, the one in front, whose song is neither beautiful – nor succint. Each time it opens, pulled aside, to admit an exit or an entrance, it sings a bit, in a whispering gush of words. Older brother always quick to open, easy to close. This younger child demands attention – listen to me! – as it struggles to master that delicate art of closing. It pushes too hard, strives to force. Calm down, little one, you want to say, go slow and rest easy. Perhaps it only learns by making its own mistakes.
Air ducts overhead breathe ever out, pushing oxygen into the box that is contains us. It is not quite breathing, though, this steady exhalation. It lacks the rhythm, the in and out, now, again. Carefully nurturing this artificial space, less than human in their perfect consistency.
Sound emanates metal and plastic, badly hung doors and ceiling ducts. Ah, but also, there are the other passengers. You are not alone in this journey, despite the isolation you sense as you stare into the black night, met only by your own reflection.
Come back inside, let the train itself fade into the baseline, and there are other sounds. Listen carefully, and you can hear it: this is life. As it is lived in a box passing through the early darkness. Living is being done here: living and loving and hurting and joy-making, longing and wanting and hoping and wishing, though mostly sitting.
The elderly couple ahead chatter with light voices, fading often into the silence of her crossword and his nap. They don't need so many words: they have journeyed long together. His gait is heavy, stumbling, as he brings her drink. Her voice is soft. She lets her words float on the moment, there for only him to find. Her movements slow, when she makes them, but hinting at the sweetest grace she used to have. Is this how aging sounds, comfortable in its obvious familiarity?
Every so often, the conductor strolls through, his footfall full of confidence and vigour. His shoes proclaim, with every step, he knows where we are. And maybe, also, why we are here.
Nearby, perhaps in the hidden seat in front of you, a young woman sings. Her voice is soft, though more melodic in its youth. Not even singing, really, but a tune hummed to accompany her magic music box. Tucked deep into her ears, swaddled like a newborn babe, these tiny pieces protect her from all that is silent.
A man coughs. Not deeply, no, he does not seem sick. There is a catch in his throat: of dust, perhaps, but maybe, also, of words unspoken and dreams just begun. It catches him there, tickles, plays that childish game, “catch me, catch me, catch me if you can.” He clears his throat, coughs, and again. But it persists, comes back to find him unawares: you won't be rid of me so easily.
Another couple, younger, still learning to be together. They pay much attention to each other, speak in whispers, but seem somehow less aware of each other's presence than their older counterparts. She leans in close to share a thought, not yet knowing how to say it with the touch of a hand. They want to be alone, but they draw an audience, wanting it so loudly.
Somewhere, a younger voice: the loudest in the car. Too young to know the rules of keeping quiet and to one's self, he murmurs, cries, and laughs. Phonetics blurring together, he is a storyteller, regaling us all with his tales of personal exploit. Until he tires, like us all, of this steady sitting, quiet being, this moving without moving. He is ready to be home, to see Daddy, to put on his pjs and eat his supper. The darkness is heaviest for him, you know, a metronome calling him to sleep. Mama tries to hush his cries, her voice soothing, “It's okay. We're almost home.” She speaks, unknowingly, to each of us, who, tired of traveling and playing and seeing these strangers, want only to be home.
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