The last train out

Mention of hardship, poverty & death

When people think of train stations, they tend to think about adventure, about magical far-off places, about a journey. Others (like those of us who are much too neurotic for our own good) think of wrecks, crashes, and all manner of disasters… death. Trains can instantly conjure up images of magic and nostalgia, of wizards and war, of transport and tech. What people seldom think of when imagining a train ride, may be the medley of passengers who wished they were anywhere but there…

On the usual morning commute, there are always hundreds of passengers on the platforms of the small town where I live: men in stained overalls, women in pants suits, teenagers with stained server’s aprons slung over their shoulders, children on their way to school (some a little more excited than others or some still cramming for a test, others passing single cigarettes as currency for answers to yesterday’s assignment). There are, of course, others who skulk around the platform, always up to no good, looking for a score, looking for a fix. It’s not their fault - so many people are down on their luck these days. 

In the years after the flood, many people lost everything. Our little town hasn’t recovered, in spite of prayer, in spite of effort, in spite of the hope that people cling to. We’ve asked the authorities time and time again, but somehow there’s never enough money, always something more important to spend the funds on. The letters written to those who could have done something, are now few and far between. The voices of those who spoke up, have been drowned out by the clamour of larger communities who claim to be in need. We need this, but most people in government who are capable of effecting change are probably still ignoring the facts in the hope that the problem will go away or solve itself. It did neither. 

Many of the bridges across the river still lie in ruin. Other structures that suffered similar fates to the bridges have been haphazardly patched by their owners. Bridges are another story altogether - you need a lot of funding and knowledge that no-one in our little town has. People can’t rely on their cars to get them out, to get anywhere. Anything that needs to be brought in, is always extra costly, because they need to drive the long way around. Unfortunately, the long way around isn’t an option for those of us commuting to and from work or doing grocery shopping beyond the basics. It’s not easy. You might be wondering why we’d stay in a place like this. Memories: that’s all that some of us have left.

On weekdays, the town’s only station is packed, but today, Saturday, there are very few familiar faces, except those working overtime, conductors on their way to the next stop, and people picking up extra shifts to keep their families fed in these difficult times. Those of us at the station probably have nowhere better to be… at least nowhere good. Some lost most of what they hold dear; some lost everything. We go to where we feel like we mean something, even if it only means a little extra cash in our pockets. Most of these passengers make the same journey every weekday, as well as every Saturday. Most of us make the journey out of habit and necessity in equal measures.

Today, there is another passenger that I don’t usually see waiting for the early train. She’s no older than 12, probably not even that. Her coat is oversized and a little frayed. Her shoes are well-polished, but well-worn. Somehow, I get the feeling that she is used to taking care of herself. Where we live, there are way too many kids like her. Neighbours reached out, the state took a couple, and others (especially the older ones) were more or less left to fend for themselves. The very thin, very clean little girl one car over, was obviously one of the lucky ones. There was definitely someone taking very good care of her. We can only hope that there’s someone taking care of the carers.

What’s most striking about this strange little figure, is not her appearance, or even the unrelenting sparkle in her eyes, but the small, unassuming box she was holding. She seemed so comfortable with it, though it also seemed out of place somehow. It was smaller than a shoebox, but bigger than a brick. She seemed at ease with the box - it looked like it weighed no more than 6 pounds. She carried it with relative ease, even though her frame was very small. I was curious, but I tend not to ask questions… the answers aren’t always something one would necessarily want to hear; I decided to mind my own business.

The schedule, though very limited, is quite dependable. One minute before the last morning train comes in, an old woman joins the girl on Platform 2. Her walking stick seems a little superfluous, but she seems to feel more secure knowing it is there, just in case. I’ve noticed a lot of that - people having emergency plans in place. With small steps, she confidently strides towards the line and puts her frail arm around the girl’s slender shoulders. “Did you remember the lily, Gran?” I hear the girl ask. “Of course, my love. They were always your mama’s favourite.”

I feel guilty for listening in on this obviously private conversation between them, but can’t help but be interested. It’s not because I’m lonely. It just helps to know that people’s lives can go on in spite of what life throws at you. I step into the same carriage that the duo board, along with only three other passengers. I quietly seat myself behind the grandmother - I don’t think they see me. We travel in silence for a minute or two, with nothing but the sound of the wheels of the train on the tracks. “Gran, what’s the place called again?” the girl asks. “It doesn’t have a name, Dear. It’s just a lookout point. You can see the ocean for kilometers either way.” I am so tempted to disembark with them, but I know I can’t miss my shift.

Just before they step off the train, I overhear the little girl say. “I’m glad Mom picked this spot. She always loved taking me to the beach. I’ll make sure the wind carries all of her into the sea.”