Promise of a New Life

I awoke and peered out the window, the sun heralding the start of yet another day. The unchanged scenery outside made it seem as if we had not traversed any distance since leaving Vancouver several days ago; an endless sea of wheat fields turned Alberta into Saskatchewan and then into Manitoba without anyone seeming to notice.

         The redolence of travel, a combination of perfume and dried sweat, accosted my nostrils, and I rubbed a finger over my upper lip in a futile attempt to minimize its effects. I pulled the fabric of my sweater to my nose, and took pride in that, despite having worn the same garments since the start of this trip, I still smelled more presentable than some of the others. I wondered how long the condition would last.

         Ana, two years younger and much smaller than I, felt heavy and restricting as she leaned against my right shoulder, still fast asleep. Across from me, my parents clung to their last moments of slumber, mimicking all but a few of the equally weary population inside the musty train car.

         Rob's seat was empty. The funny American, who became our incidental travel companion from the beginning, seemed to always be up earlier than the rest of us and was often the last person to go down at night. The travel bag was not under his seat, and I wondered if he had disembarked while we slept. The thought saddened me.

         I pressed Ana against her seat, careful not to awaken her, and rose to my feet. The floor shook violently and I quickly grabbed an armrest to keep from toppling over. When I found my balance, I stretched my tired muscles and stepped into the aisle. One benefit of being an early riser, I discovered, was nearly exclusive access to the car's lavatory. My footsteps were in concert with the subtle motion of the floor as I headed toward the rear of the car to take care of my morning necessities.


Evidence of Rob still being on board came in the form of the distinct resonance of the kalimba, its tune emanating from somewhere inside the food car. I followed the music and sat down across the booth from the bearded wanderer. He gave me a warm smile while his thumbs never skipped a beat, masterfully alighting across the tiny metal strips that comprised the peculiar musical instrument. "Mornin', Joe."

         "Morning," I said, amused with Rob's propensity for westernizing my given name. "Your bag's with you."

         "Yup," he said, setting the kalimba on the table and taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm gettin' off at the next stop."

         I felt my smile wane and I turned to the window. "Are you scared?"

         "Nah," Rob said. "New job; new town. It's gonna be a blast! Aren't you excited about Montreal?"

         "I don't speak French."

         "They also speak English there."

         "Everything will be different."

         "It'll be a great adventure. Think about it. Not everyone gets to experience what you are about to. You'll love it, you'll see."

         "I miss my house, I miss my friends. I wish we didn't have to move." My voice cracked slightly as I uttered the last few words.

         "Aw, don't worry, little buddy," Rob said, picking his kalimba back up, tentatively plucking at it. "Things will be old hat to you in no time."

         I let my mind wander, and tried to imagine what Montreal would be like. A few months ago, my father informed us of our eventual relocation, compliments of a "promotion" he'd received. (I would later find out from my mother that it was a "forced transfer," a way for the company to handle a sensitive situation my father had haphazardly gotten himself into.) I didn't handle the news very well, and didn't speak to my father for days. How could he do this to me? Why should I have to lose everything because of something he did? I demanded to stay, but I had no choice in the matter. We were moving and that was that. Besides, how could a twelve-year-old take care of himself?

         "I hope you're right," I said at last.

         "Of course I'm right."

         A chime rang through the food car, and the crackling of the overhead speakers preceded an announcement. "Arriving at Winnipeg. Next stop, Winnipeg."

         "That's me," Rob said, grinning. He unzipped his travel bag, tossed the kalimba inside, and got up. "You gonna be okay, bud?"

         His question sounded more like a statement, and I looked up at the scruffy fellow who seemed to not have a care in the world. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

         "Good," he said, hoisting his travel bag over his shoulder. "Tell your family goodbye for me, okay?"

         I nodded, and saluted him a wave.

         "And have fun on your new adventure, kid!"

         I smiled and nodded again. I wanted to return his enthusiasm, but couldn't dig deeply enough. I watched Rob walk toward the end of the car and disappear behind the sliding door.


I returned to my seat to find my family still asleep. The train began to move again. I looked out the window hoping to catch a final glimpse of our former travel companion. As my car pulled out of the station, I finally found Rob walking on the road that ran along the tracks, a huge smile on his face, a recklessness in his gait. And I envied him at that moment.

         I rapped on the window in an attempt to get his attention, but I knew it was useless. We had already picked up speed and the train's whistle permeated the air.

         My father awoke. He rubbed his eyes and gave me a concerned smile. "Is everything alright, José?"

         "Yes," I replied, returning his smile. "Good morning, Papá."

         "Good morning, míjo," he said, shielding his tired eyes from the sunlight. "Looks like it's going to be another beautiful day."

         Outside, Winnipeg sleepily greeted the brightening sky.

         "Yes, Papá," I said, "I think you're right."


Winner of 04/05/08 Challenge for "The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: For tomorrow, I’d love a story or poem about trains. I want to hear them roaring down the tracks and see the billows of soft gray shooting up from their smoke stacks. (All right, I’m not sure if modern trains still do that. Pollution-wise, I hope not.) Anyway let your piece have a setting on a train or involve trains somehow.
Word Count: 1000