The trains follow us

by Sarosh Nandwani

The trains follow us; they check when we leave the house, and time their departures just so to slow our rushed pace. They no longer sing or speak, but crawl, wearily, to their next destination.

When my husband was younger, he lived in a motel across from train tracks. In the night, his ears rose at the sound passing by. We are here for you. Come out and see us. The dense baritone horn sounded. The world stayed sleeping. He awoke, padding his young, heavy, socked steps sneakily out the door. The air, thick with humidity, scattered the train lights into a soft glow as he crossed the road, running now, to say his hello’s. Hello, he says, looking up at the carts with a wide smile and sleepy eyes. The trains knew, this young boy, they knew, this son of immigrants can hear us.

After a few moments, the train extended its railing, and soon parts were raining down. Put us back together, little one. And he did. Around and between the carts he ran, picking up parts, puzzling them back together. Some days, he would sit on top of the carts and stare up to the stars, thinking of all the trains that had passed through, somehow knowing to stop at this very place in Opelousas, Louisiana.

He hears them less now, my husband. Their calls have become aches, he tells me, and sometimes stop all together. These days, they have only enough energy to follow us. With each railroad crossing comes a train, just arriving, just leaving, on its way to its next destination. It’s your magic, I tell him. That we stop at each train track. That they miss you so much.