Travelling from Holland to Lancaster



     She appeared in your vision as a flash of
scenery off the side of a moving train.  You were
travelling from Holland to Lancaster, when you
experienced a sudden desire to loosen your gaze
from the evening paper and glance to the outdoors.
She stood there, as if a spring day in autumn, a
blur of pastel colors against the sky, which was
turning deep blue.  Then the endless array of gray
houses, streets, street lamps, and clothes hanging
from back porches.  A neuron fired in your brain,
noting her, and then you returned to the strict
lines of black words on newsprint.

     The next day, as you stretched in your seat,
arms raised against the bottom of the second tier, 
you saw her again.  She stood at the side of the 
tracks, her details a little clearer this time, 
perhaps a hint of a smile.  Then the usual repeated 
views of a neighborhood.  A smile touched your lips
and you closed your eyes briefly.  

     The third day, you wanted to see her again.
You felt a little apprehensive, perhaps silly,
glancing from time to time out the window.  All
the while, you kept the scenery in the corner of
your eye.  You held the paper as an excuse, a
reason to be staring at something without seeming
neurotic.  In time, you reached the end of the
line.  You felt dismayed, disappointed.  Then you
exited the train, dismissing her from your waking
thoughts.

     For weeks, you rode the train daily,
concentrating on your paper.  Sometimes you lulled
into a semi-conscious state and closed your eyes,
dreaming of flowers blossoming in autumn.  Sometimes
the train conductor would surprise you in your state, 
requesting your ticket.  You were careful never to 
look out the window for any length of time, 
especially in unexpected moments.  The train was 
like a capsule, carrying you safely and intact
from one end to the next.  

     One day the train began to slow down in the
middle of the route.  The houses developed smaller
details: dead flowers in a windowbox, plastic
numbers over the doorways, weed and rocks growing
in unkempt areas.  Perhaps engine trouble was the
matter, or a desolate man who had jumped in front 
of the train or refused to move from the tracks.
The train grinded to a full stop.  You suppressed
an urge to complain, then looked out the window.

     She stood there, by the tracks, down fifty 
meters, dressed for spring.  You felt your legs 
stand, walk the aisle, and step out the first 
entrance.  As you neared her, the train began 
moving, slowly pulling itself out of town.  When 
you came close enough to hold her, she turned.  Her 
dark hair swayed around her face, her eyes hinting 
at mischief, and her smile, a touch of sun.  You 
couldn't help to lean over to kiss her, and she 
seemed to know you.

     The day passed into history, and the night 
came into being.  Some nights you walked among car 
wrecks and electric wire poles in a field.  On 
another, you walked into a meadow of lilies of 
the valley and aster.  Clouds gathered in the sky,
then frolicked from east to west.  Unseen dogs 
howled like wolves in the full moon.  Once, 
you found a starfish stranded on a mudbank in 
the middle of the rainy season.  At the end of 
each evening, you walked back to the nearest 
train depot and continued on your way.

     One day, you discovered that your work
demanded you at another destination.  You found
the courage to tell her before the last visit,
promising that you would make an effort to take
the train, sometimes, which passed her.  She 
seemed sad but fixed her gaze beyond the ragged
rooftops.

     Weeks passed.  The first several times 
you wanted to see her, you ended up watching her
from a distance, gauging her attitude from the
safety of the train.  Perhaps she wouldn't want 
to see you, or worse yet, perhaps she would
disappear if you approached.  Once or twice, you 
almost overlooked her entirely, before you saw 
her out of the corner of your eye.  Finally, you
managed to step off the train.

     There she stood, by the side of the tracks.
She seemed to blend into the background at a
distance, fade into the apartments.  Approaching, 
you realized that this was her -- all this time 
you'd thought perhaps the train, the distance,
the infrequent passings -- perhaps that was why 
she seemed different.  But it was her, not you.  
She looked less particular, as if any passerby 
on a city street.

     She had once stood at the side of the tracks 
at the same time each day.  On the days you came 
early or late, she was never there, only at the 
unspoken time.  Now, you wondered where she went,
how she spent her days.  You recalled her smile as 
you'd first seen it, an unexpected glimmer in the 
midst of autumn.  Did she flash that smile to others
now, passing in their business?

     You leaned close to kiss her, and felt a faint 
rush of wind like a breeze in autumn.  When you 
opened your eyes, you saw an old wooden post, tall 
with a rusty sign, swinging gently.

     In faded script: 122 kilometers, Holland.



     --jennifer crystal chien