Watching the Trains Slip Away

dylan

Trains and loss are bound together.  Watching a train disappear into the distance can be a woeful thing. Think of all the songs you know where trains  symbolize sorrow and longing, like Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues, the folk song 500 Miles Away From Home, or Chris Isaak’s 5:15:

“What big dreams we had,
Now I watch those dreams all fade and die.
What big plans we had,
Now I watch those trains go rolling by.
Rolling by, rolling by.
I’m watching the trains.”

Train in Distance

I met a kind, soft-spoken model railroader at a recent event who mentioned during breakfast that his wife of many years had passed away six months prior.  I told him about my father’s passing and shared the lesson of grief: the death of a loved one changes you.  He quickly nodded in understanding, and then told me about his wife’s long illness and how much he missed her.  “She and I worked on our layout together; she did all the scenery and I worked on the trains,” he explained, voice cracking.   “Oh my,” I said, “I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to be here without her.”  Her death had broken him open, and yet there he was, upright, bearing his grief with a quiet dignity.  I wished him well, touched his arm and started walking away when he pulled me back and hugged me.

Riding a train will change you.   Although planes and trains take you somewhere else, in a train your perspective changes with the scenery.  In the air, time is suspended; you ride  through clouds inside a tube, dwelling within yourself  as much as possible while time itself moves forward or backward.  Perhaps you’ll be jarred from your bubble by a small child rhythmically kicking the back of your seat; or by the unexpected, violent reclining of a passenger seated in front of you.  Regardless, we all want to get off planes as soon as possible.  Not so with trains, where you can eavesdrop on conversations, watch the trees and houses and streets whiz by or feel the wheels and slow rocking of the car as it click-clacks along the rails.

Inside a train, we travelers but also observers; a loud whistle heralds our approach as we fly past a railroad crossing in the rain; we catch a glimpse of wipers sweeping across windshields of idling cars waiting for the train to pass.  Pulling into a station, we peer out car windows to scrutinize passengers on the platform.  We can wonder, “Who are you?  Where are you going?” as they trudge or hurry, hauling luggage, briefcases, shopping bags, backpacks.  We spy on wrinkled, worried brows; eyes searching frantically for loved ones; parents wearily herding more than one small child, distracted souls lost in thought.  At the end of our journey, we are somehow transformed by railway sights and sounds as we too stumble out onto the platform.  Others, still aboard, watch us as we, the observed, walk out of their lives.

I’ve sold a lot of my father’s trains, and there are still more to go (sometimes it seems as if they are reproducing).  But now I feel a prick of loss as I pack each one for shipment.  I want to hold onto them somehow because as long as they’re here, so is Dad, along with the rest of my family.  Instead of being scattered across North America like Priority Mail packages, we will gather for Thanksgiving Day with Dad and pretend for his sake that all is well, keeping our thoughts and feelings to ourselves while we smile and laugh.

Without him, we are trains fading into the distance.

  6 comments for “Watching the Trains Slip Away

  1. Alan Mende
    November 23, 2015 at 7:54 pm

    Mary, you are a gifted and very perceptive writer. I had the pleasure of meeting you at the recent MER convention. Through your words and your dad’s collection, you remain very near to him.

    Alan

    Like

    • November 23, 2015 at 9:30 pm

      Hi Alan, Thank you so very much for your kind words. Mary

      Like

  2. Laurie
    November 25, 2015 at 1:37 pm

    Hi,

    What a beautiful sentiment and tribute to your Dad. Your words are touching and ring true, as we have spoken about on our walks.
    Your Dad was fortunate in many ways; mostly to have had you as a loving and caring daughter.

    Like

  3. Linda Kotin
    December 3, 2015 at 4:11 pm

    You have taken an old analogy and put it into a beautiful new situation.
    Thanks for a lovely piece

    Like

    • Linda Kotin
      December 3, 2015 at 4:12 pm

      To bad I can’t write a coherent sentence anymore
      “putting it into” is what i should have written

      Like

      • December 4, 2015 at 2:43 am

        LOl. Thanks Linda!

        Like

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