Train

It sits on rails. I can see it. It’s heavy, wooden with steel frame and crossbars and barn doors. No windows, enclosed, no light in or out. I push it. Sometimes I pull it. I am on the outside. Often, I walk alongside and it follows. I don’t know why. I stop, it stops. Sometimes I start to run. It follows but in the distance because somehow I am faster than the train. When I’m pushing it’s in front, when I’m pulling, behind. The barn doors never open. I have memories of the doors being open, years ago, but now all I see is a closed box on wheels. I feel its presence. I understand I have a responsibility. But I am confused. I am outside. I want to open the door but something makes it impossible. I know I should suck it up and get it done but that doesn’t hold the power it once did. I’m not sure it ever did, except to acknowledge, I am still sitting here at this wooden table forming letters with my favorite pen in a lab notebook. Like the ones I used to draw and take notes in for science class.

Everyday I lay down and go to sleep in the gravel next to the train. I wake up with the sun and the train is there. Everyday for years, I woke and the train was there. Until one morning, I opened my eyes and the train was gone. My heart sank. I fell into a deep melancholia. For a long time I felt the train might not be there in the morning. That day finally arrived. The sense of impending loss did not soften the edges.