Ticket

There is a train at a station. A warm summer morning. Rain puddles along the walk. Flowers in hanging baskets and birds. You are standing on the boarding dock twirling a ticket between nervous fingers. No bags for the porter. Steam billows from the underbelly of the restless gold train. A whistle startles you. Your engagement to your thoughts is broken. The conductor shouts “last call” hanging off the side adroitly, waving a large pale palm. He smiles. His teeth stark against... the shadow of dark skin. He is wearing a dark-blue wool suit with shiny gold buttons that catch the sun. Anxiously, you look down the track as though you might see the entire route before you. But it bends out of your sight and into the mouth of thick green woods and offers no more. A speckled fawn stands down the line then darts across, vanishing in the thicket. Someone bumps into you hurrying to board. You drop the ticket and it stares up at you. Either you bend over and pick it up and board this train, or you wave goodbye and watch it go. The conductor says something you do not understand. This isn’t the Downeaster to Portland, or the Adirondack to Montreal that runs five times daily. This train only boards once and if it goes you know you will never catch a glimpse of it again.