Passenger Tracks

My feet step quickly on the pavement as I push towards the train station.  It is the type of day where despite my hustle I am still, and always, running ten minutes behind.  Loaded down with a back-pack full of clothing and a canvas bag brimming with shoes, I descend the steps towards a ticket machine that is bound to reject half my money.  It is the most subtle of knee-wobbles that reminds me that a snack is in order and this is immediately rectified with a coffee and berry muffin.

I walk onto the platform in perfect time: the train slows down, matching my pace, and then stops with doors opening right before me.  

I step into the unusually empty car and find an open seat immediately.  And then I stop.  How.  How am I going to remove my back-pack and sit down while holding a coffee in one hand, a muffin in the other and a canvas bag slung over my elbow?  This is probably a good time to tell you that I am awkward at the best of times and accident prone at the worst.  

I half-try a few things, feeling restricted and shy in front of the disregarding audience.  From behind me I hear a giggle.  I turn to see who the sound had belonged to and I catch eyes with an elderly woman.  Her face sparkles with warmth and a subtle mischief lies in her kind upturned lips.

I smile back, gesture at my load and laugh.  With the ice broken, I shuffle my stuff around with an astounding hint of grace?  I take my seat.  

The car lurches forward and I steady my hand so as not to spill scalding coffee all over my arm.  This is the first time all day I’ve had the chance to sit down for a significant period of time;  I nibble on my muffin, my stomach rumbling in recognition of its hunger waking up.  And then I hear it again, stifled snickers.  I look up and that same wonderful woman sits with hands stationed before her smiling mouth.  I can’t help but smile back.

I look ahead and can see my reflection in the window across from me.  It’s late autumn and the sun has a habit of setting early.  The train’s yellow overhead lighting feels warm and safe as we slice through the unforgiving city.  

I brought along a book for the ride but the thought of retrieving my it from the depths of my backpack is laughable so instead I sit and sip.  Occasionally I catch eyes with the elderly woman and we smile, she chuckles and her eyes shimmer.  To be honest, I’m very happy not to be reading.  I’m completely captivated and curious by the seemingly infinite youth that emanates from this small and slouching lady.  

I grew up in a small town that didn’t have a public transportation system.  When I moved to the city, one of the first things I did on my first day was ride the train.  In a way, I associated the skytrain with my choice to take a risk and make a move that scared me.  On that first train ride I remember looking around and realizing how very big the world was and how very small my experience with it had been so far.  I remember looking at all of the people, all of these strangers, and wondering what their stories were.

I think of this while the train jostles down the track and then I wonder what the elderly woman’s story is.  I finish my muffin, thus freeing a hand, and jokingly give it an exaggerated stretch. My new friend laughs.  

Our moment, however is interrupted;  I had been so distracted by my new friend’s radiance that I hadn’t noticed her husband sitting next to her.  

He scolds her in a language I can’t understand and she looks down, her smile slipping.  The train dims and for a couple of stops we ride in heart-breaking silence.  More than before, I find myself wondering what this woman’s story is.  I imagine her in her youth.  I imagine that she is vibrant and brave and warm.  I imagine that she is in love.  

At each station, passengers come and go  Steadily, fewer load off than on and my eye line is impeded.  I feel something in my chest, an odd feeling that sits halfway between panic and yearning.  I peek around a set of legs and see her sitting, staring steadily at her hands.  I feel an unbearable compulsion to check in with her and my time is running out.  I peek again but am unable to make eye contact.

For a moment I stop and wonder if I should make some subtle movements to catch her attention.  It remains a thought, I don’t do it.   

I’m conflicted, worried that by getting her attention I’ll get her into some kind of trouble.  I peek again.  This time she looks up at me.  I gesture with my coffee cup as I had at the start of our journey.  She smiles and the light in her eyes flickers again for a moment.  She looks back down at her hands and I lean back into my seat.  

I finish my coffee and look out at the black sky.  It is clear and cold.  A stunning moon shines down illuminating the neighbourhoods we streak past.  I’m two stops from my destination and I try to focus on my plans for the evening.  This is only moderately productive and I find myself spending more time calling my mind back to the subject than I do actually thinking about the subject itself.  

My day plays back in a blur and it somehow feels like I’ve spent more time on the train with this woman than doing anything else.      

The train lurches into its resting place a final time and I gather my bags and stand.  To my surprise, the elderly woman stands as well.  She walks straight past her husband who sits shocked, mouth gaping open, and straight up to me.  She puts her hands on either of my cheeks and plants a kiss directly on my lips.  “You have a good life.” she whispers.

With her hands still on my cheeks, we stand there for a moment weeping.  The train dings its warning bell and we are reminded of the present.  I turn and step onto the platform.  I look back as the doors shut.  I’m hoping I get to see her one last time and there she is, her head held in soft confidence and a gentle smile christening her lips. 

Have a good life.  I repeat it to myself, insistent on following through with my new friends firm request.  Have a good life.