The Train

 

My grandpa loved trains and when I see them on occasion I think of him.  He was a peculiar man, possibly even eccentric.  He spent the last half of his eighty years divorced from my grandma and living as a single man, working as a janitor, and habitating in various rented spaces before transitioning to a nursing home when dementia set in in his seventies.  

He was gruff, especially to women and children, but as I grew older I began to appreciate him more.  Like all of us, he was who he was and had been formed by forces mostly outside of his control.  He boiled Quaker oats on the stove top every morning and added a pinch of salt.  Lunch and supper were always accompanied by a slice of buttered white bread.  

He kept to his rituals until the inexorableness of his cognitive decline robbed him of them.  I visited him at the nursing home when I could.  I would take my college books down there to work on assignments and study.  I don’t think he knew who I was but seemed appreciative of the company and sometimes unexpected wisdom would manifest in his lost thoughts.

I won’t lie, there was a very attractive nurse there that made it easier to spend time with him.  She and I lived in two completely different social spheres but it was nice to see her smile.  I once challenged my grandpa to a race down her wing.  I took off running half in jest  but when I looked around he was right on my tail.  Her lovely eyes registered surprise if not alarm.

And the train has come a long way since then.  I watch it speed over my head on the way home.  A lifetime of change and choices have come and gone like those coupled railroad cars flying by.  I wonder where they are headed at such breakneck speed?  I sometimes wish life would slow down and let me catch my breath so I can remember who I am.  

***