Slow Train Comin’

Miss Spinnaker says death resides inside each of us, lies dormant suppressed by an abundance of living flesh. Life, death’s vacuum fresh container, sealed tight by an overwhelming desire to remain among the living. It’s only when the balance slides in the opposite direction that death begins to surface, emerges from its container in startling spurts. Likely conversation from a woman whose own existence is living proof of the subtle distinction between dying and getting older–walking backward into the moon until the sun can no longer claim us, time on earth a penance we each must pay in order to earn eternal life after death.

I tapped her apparent expertise on coping with a lonesome existence. “Why is it that everybody leaves me?”

“It would be too simple of me to say life is fleeting. But life is just that, a train moving against all our will at times. Best if yours is a slow train, running along a smooth track. A train so slow you’ll have chance to stroll alongside its easy locomotion, set up however you like, climb aboard awhile then step down and let the train pass by if you decide that’s best.

“But, take heed,” she warned. “No two trains ever pass the same way twice. Even a train you know will be different if ever it comes your way again. You’ll be different, too. So pay special attention if ever you spot a slow train comin’.”

I sensed Gram’s voice inside the room with us, felt her hand at my back. For the first time began to see in Miss Spinnaker compassion over curiosity, genuine concern over meddling interest. I channeled my questions to Gram through her, my ears longing again for the sound of my grandmother’s reassuring tone. “How will I recognize which train is mine?”

“A slow train will make itself plain. Trust in that.” I thought she might put me off again, watched as her teacup clanked against unsuspecting teeth, her lips taking a protective stance. She studied the rim of her cup, dabbed her tongue at a runaway drop of tea before setting the cup down again.

“Ever have a dream where something is waiting on you–a bus or train, a fast moving apple cart–whatever your form of transport?” she pondered. “Still, you can’t seem to get yourself together to leave the house. You touch the door over and over again, each time retreating for one thing after another: your gloves, your scarf, a clean handkerchief. Then your face needs touching up, your hair another primping. Most times in that dream, you wake up before connecting with whoever or whatever is waiting on you.

“Every so often you do make that connection, force yourself outside to find your bus or train or apple cart just pulling up. That’s when you recognize it, a break in the universe, that tiny speck of time where no one exists outside of you and your person moving in perfect lockstep. You find that train, you hang on to it for all it’s worth. You hear what I’m tellin’ you?”