Your journey on the train

The train conductor stamps your ticket before handing it back. You thank him, amused at how the strap of his hat pushes up his lips to make him pout. He checks the ticket of the person to your left, pushed up against your elbow on this busy train to… you don’t quite remember where.

The carriage has 2 rows of seats facing each other and a central row of leather straps hanging from the ceiling. The benches are hard and, from little you can see, the wood polished to such a degree that the headrests catch the light streaming through the windows. The sun is high, morning you think.

You have been here a while. It was a marvel you got a seat. You can barely raise your arms. Sardines, Dad would have said. Is it rush hour? You aren’t sure. The other passengers seem friendly, each one speaking to you a little before they need to leave, the conductor looking at their ticket and opening the door. Each one seems familiar.

A smart businesswoman with a briefcase asks you about the stock market. You worked in finance until quite recently, you tell her. You had been in charge of the accounting department for a small company and had liked the work. The boss had been nice. She smiles and tells you she is glad to hear that, proceeding to the conductor, showing her ticket.

Recently. Before you got too sick to work. Before you didn’t have the strength to walk about on your own. You remember the hospital. The hospital! You look down and sure enough you are still in the gown you had been lying in before you took a nap, the clean blue one the kind nurse had found especially for you. Blue had always been your favourite colour, your friends had mocked you for only owning blue shirts while at college.

“Remember that train we went on to get to the party? Ben jumped off to piss then missed the doors closing. Poor lad was left on the platform for an hour.” Rob laughs, standing in front of you and holding one of the leather straps. You’re glad to see him. You laugh with him, coughing only a little. You remember that party, the one where you danced to music you didn’t recognise and drank a little too much tequila. Rob had carried you home, he had always been like that. Best friends always have each other’s backs. You reminisce about other parties before he has to leave. He waves at you as the conductor opens the carriage door for him. Rob did so well, that nice family and a house in the suburbs. His wife sent you those novelty birthday cards. Wife. You’d never settled down like that.

A pretty young girl, still in her school uniform, catches your eye. She is sitting in the seat across from yours. She tilts her head to the side and asks you if you got better at talking to women. You smirk and tell her a little, there had been a few dates but nothing special. She doesn’t seem convinced. She sighs, stating you had always been terrible at school and asks why you never asked her out on a date. You laugh, you had always been shy and found numbers easier to deal with than girls. She purses her lips and stands. She tells you it’s ok, she appreciated all the help you gave her in Maths. She says she isn’t sure she would have passed without you, and with a toss of her long black hair she is gone.

Gone. Gone is your gown as you place your hands on your knees, replaced with a rougher denim. You are in your favourite jeans. You pat your chest and find a soft cashmere jumper, blue of course, the ones your Mum bought you as a special present. The woman sitting on your left smiles. She has brown eyes with flecks of green, just like yours. As she leans on your shoulder, you can smell the familiar scent of lily of the valley, the one you always bought her for Christmas.

“Oh, my little one, you always did love trains.” Mum squeezes your left arm. The needle holes seem to be gone. It feels stronger than it has done in months. “You would stand at the end of the garden and wave to everyone as they went past.” You nod. You remember, recalling the smell of the fresh cut grass in the tidy garden separated from the wild fields by a red wooden fence. It had notches you could put your 6-year-old feet in and hoist yourself up.

“Yes! You were always climbing! Trees, the countertops, oh how you would tumble. Going to school with all those bruises.” She tickles your knee like she did when you were small. It feels strange but familiar. You are glad she is so close. She tells you she is happy you are looking better. She kisses your cheeks, pinching them. She is holding back tears. You are too. She picks up her trusty jute shopping bags and stands up. It is much easier to move with fewer people in the carriage. She moves to the door and shows the conductor 2 tickets.

“She worries about you a lot.” Dad says to your right, closing his newspaper with a ruffle. You nod. You both sit in silence, shaking as the carriage turns a wide corner. He thinks. He looks at you. He huffs. He berates you for holding in the pain, not telling them more. He tells you he wasn’t stupid; he could see it in your eyes. You turn to him. You say sorry. His lip quivers under his thick moustache. Mum is calling him over. You put out your hand for him to shake but he ignores it, pulling you into a hard embrace. He tells you he is proud of you. He tells you are loved. You tell him you know. You thank him. You watch him walk, newspaper under his arm, towards your mother. They hold hands as they descend the trains steps.

The carriage is all but empty, just the conductor and you. You reflect on everyone who travelled with you in your life, thankful for each one. Is that what we are? The sum total of our encounters with others? You swing your legs above the linoleum floor and smile, thankful for having so many others to reflect on. Remembering the conductor, you feel a little embarrassed to be acting like a child. You stop, go a little red. You look up. The window…

Above the row of seats across from you is a window the length of the carriage. Without the mass of bodies, you can finally see out it. The sun is setting on the horizon over rolling fields, rays glinting off the winding river. You are entranced. You remember childhood holidays, teenage summers, and that bike trip you took in your 20s. Studying hours for final exams, unpaid internships, coffee runs for meetings, big job interviews, long commutes, and night-times in bars blowing off steam. Doctors’ appointments, scans, news.

Tears.

Fighting.

Chemotherapy and green jelly cups. Kind nurses, flowers, fruit and visiting hours…

Goodbyes. Goodbyes…

“Are you ready?” The conductor asks you, standing at your feet.

You look out the windows at all the green and luscious life outside and realise you are. You smile gently at him and nod. You follow him to the vestibule, and he opens the door. A soft breeze rolls through the carriage and through your hair, ruffling it. Hair. You have hair again. You catch your reflection in the metal pole beside you and realise you are whole again.

You thank the conductor. He tells you the pleasure is all his. As you look out over the most beautiful natural scenery you have ever seen you take a deep breath, your lungs filling with fresh air. You exhale and descend the steps.