Next Stop: Here
Being on a train always gives me the most peculiar sensation of having arrived. There’s something about the tracks and the movement and the sky, the little bit of shore, the off-kilter conversations, the men in hats who come by punching holes into tickets, that makes me think: this is where I’ve always been meant to be.
Except, of course, I’m nowhere. I’m just in-between places.
This morning, between Boston and New York, I read this book, and I was so floored by it, I made the lady next to me–the one in the blue windbreaker and the Keds–read it too. And she did. Cover-to-cover. And I was really glad we didn’t speak after, only gave each other a sort of nod, and then right before we pulled into the last station–as if this is how we most accurately speak to a stranger–she took my empty fruit cup and threw it away for me.