To Move Again

I miss the train. Before Europe, I was an inexperienced commuter. Then I began to rely on public transit - to love it even. The only time I was ever in a car was on the weekend if my host family and I went somewhere for the day. I never missed cars or rush hour or the smell of gas. But I miss the train.

The walk to the train is always laced with anticipation: What if the train is early? Am I walking fast enough? If I miss it, how long before the next train comes? All of these questions disappear when I finally reach the platform, secure that I have made it on time. I almost always consider whether or not I should walk down to the end of the platform or just stay put. It is always a relief when the train finally comes into view and screeches across the tracks - my irrational fear that it will forget to stop inevitably in bloom. As it approaches, the brakes squeal and I only have an allotted amount of time to decide which door to enter. I try not to sit down again before the train begins to move again.

I like the jolt, the moment of switching from something static to something fluid - there is comfort in the movement, the sending off.