At the Train Station

We had been waiting. Not for long, but long enough that I was about to get vaguely worried. The concern that gives your eyes the freedom to zip about in a nervous-type way, even if someone else is talking to you intently. I resisted, and stared at the ground, trying to concentrate on the words he was saying. In fact, I had forgotten what we were talking about; it became less and less important as we arrived in the train station. Provoking thought once dominated my attention, now replaced by distracted anticipation; I wasn't completely sure who or what we were waiting for.

Then he said the words: "Well, where is he? We might be late."

At that moment I saw the guitar case appear among the huddle of pea coats to the left, and I knew it was him before I looked up. The figure brought with his presence an idea also of what I was doing here, where we all were going. Realization and discovery hit me simultaneously--a strange phenomenon. How can you discover who you're looking for and realize that you've known who it is all along?

"Just in time," I catch myself saying. Within minutes, a train arrived. We hop aboard, the three of us, entering the old-fashioned rail car that is almost completely empty, its doors clanging shut behind us.

The train pulled away from the station, leaving a small absence in the crowd, a void worth the space of three people and a unified cause. No one noticed but us, dragging along our various hopes and a guitar.

Our mission had begun.