The Man at the Station

By the time I stepped off the train that evening there were angry dark clouds hanging from the sky. They bathed the world in their dark color and dipped so close to the earth that I felt all I had to do was reach up to touch their silky smooth pummels. Clouds of dark colors that now are nothing more than a memory. A moment in time that will forever be engraved in my mind. A day that will never be forgotten, details that will eternally be remembered. It was the day I first saw him.

  He stood there hunched over with hands in his pockets, standing on the train platform. His eyes staring off into the distance, waiting. His auburn hair was sticking up in every direction as it was blown in the wind. Mud stained his clothes and caked the bottom of his jeans and boots.  His flannel button-up shirt was wrinkled as if he had no time to smooth it out. He seemed so out of place on the platform amidst the hustle and bustle of faceless people, standing alone, with no reason. He made no move to board the train and ignored everyone around him as if they did not exist.

His presence filled me with familiarity and safety, but a strong sense of sadness filled the space around him and sent chills up my spine. I bowed my head and rushed off the platform in an attempt to rid myself of the sight of the man. Moving with determination, I put the man out of my mind figuring I would never see him again. Yet as I lay in my bed that evening his eyes haunted me throughout the night and all I could see were those blue orbs staring at the tracks, full of sorrow and pain.

I was surprised to find the man standing on the platform when I arrived the next morning to head to work. His appearance had not changed other than more mud that coated his wrinkled clothes. Clothes that were the same as the ones he wore the day before.  He looked worse than he did the day before as if he had never moved from his spot at the station and had faced the storm that had raged throughout the night. His brown hair was plastered to his head, and blue eyes still staring down the tracks. Shrugging off the weird man I turned to board the train. As I moved to find a seat and a place to put my briefcase I turned to look out the window and saw tear-filled blue eyes staring straight at me. I shivered at the intensity of the stare, a stare that looked right through me.]

He was there when I returned from the city and my stomach sunk at the sight of him.  The man at the station seemed to be the only thing on my mind now, filling my head with questions and anxiety. He never acknowledged the people around him only staring at the train tracks, lost in his mind. Waiting for something, waiting for nothing. As I exited the train I leaned over to ask Mrs. Bethal about the man, “What’s that man doin’ here?”

Mrs. Bethal frowned and turned to look at him, I watched as the confusion melted off her face and was replaced with recognition. “Don’tcha know?” She asked with eagerness, “He’s a-waitin’ for ‘is boy.”

“His boy?” I questioned as my brows furrowed in confusion. I waved to a faceless man boarding the train as I followed Mrs. Bethal.

“Yah, ‘is son lad. He’s a-waitin’ for ‘is son,” Mrs. Bethal patted me on the shoulder before hurrying off the platform.

“His son, but why is he still waitin’ for his son?” I muttered to myself as I stepped off the platform. Turning to look back at the man I was surprised to see he was gone, the only thing left was the memory of piercing blue eyes. 

Throughout the rest of the week, I was haunted by the man at the station. He always looked as if he was falling apart, torn by a burden that only he could carry. His clothes were always a mess, and his eyes red, but he never failed to show up. He was always there when I was leaving and waiting on the platform when I returned. It was a week after I had first seen him when his appearance changed. I nearly did not recognize him when I arrived that morning. It was his blue eyes that allowed me to identify him. He stood there in the same place as always staring at the tracks. His hair for the first time was styled and combed and he wore a carefully pressed black suit. His beard was trimmed for the first time since I had seen him, and no mud splattered his clothes. His appearance surprised me and as the train pulled from the station I turned to look at him from the window. The man raised his arm in a wave, before collapsing onto his knees. He wasn’t at the station when I returned that evening.

He never missed a day again after that day and his appearance changed.  Somedays he would still show up a mess and sometimes in the same clothes as the day before. Somedays he would be clean-shaven and well dressed, but never in a suit. His posture grew worse as the days passed. His hands had begun to shake and he sometimes looked like he would fall over. Sometimes when I would board the train he would raise a gnarly hand to wave at the train as it pulled from the station. Other times he would simply stand there, never sitting, never moving. Sometimes white tufts of hair would fall over his blue eyes and he would reach a shaky hand up to brush it out of the way. His eyes never changed though. Blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles and still so full of pain. So full of sorrow and love. Always watching the train tracks.

I was early that Monday morning, the clouds were once again grey and low to the ground. Similar to how they had been all those years ago when I had first seen the man.  The station was empty when I approached it only the man stood there, hunched over staring at the tracks. Walking forward my eyes took in the station around me. I took a deep breath as my eyes scanned the old tracks, the falling-apart floorboards, the vines that crept up the walls. Smiling softly I approached the man, “You don’t always have to wait.”

The old man made no move to respond, no move to acknowledge my existence, as he stared down the overgrown tracks, but I still heard the echoing voice as it had been spoken on the fourth, “I will always wait for you my son. Always.” A sad smile crossed the man’s face at the memory and I turned to board the train. Turning around I stared at the old man, for I felt as if this would be the last time the man would be at the station. The last time he would be able to wait for his son to return home. The last time he would see his son off. A deep sadness filled his pained-filled eyes, as he stared at me. Eyes that were waiting for rest. He smiled at the memory, he smiled at me.