Coming Home

Coming Home

         The train wheezes, sputters, and heaves itself into the station. With a final grunt it spews out hordes of worn-out and restless passengers. The platform suddenly comes alive, lurching awake under the stampede of hosts mingling with guests. The crowd, looking like an amorphous monstrous slug, slowly seeps into the station building, leaving behind a few lost souls.

         No matter what the weather, I always walk down the platform slowly, keeping my distance from the general chaos, enjoying the feel of steady ground under my feet after seven hours on the train. By the time I reach the doors to the main concourse, the platform is once again silent. The glass doors seem to separate two worlds. Inside is a swarming beehive; outside the trains are the silent guardians of peace and tranquility. The building beckons me the way a light bulb beckons the moths on a summer night and without further hesitation I step inside.

         Instantly I am enveloped in a mad throng of people. Someone asks me a question and then turns away without waiting for an answer. A woman speaks to me in Spanish and I answer even as I try to translate. Yet another person offers to help me with my bag. Standing in the midst of this commotion I am reminded of carnivals I used to go to as a child - the same delightful chaos, the same sense of urgency, and finally the unmistakable anticipation of something mysterious yet wonderful. Finally, I make my way to the escalators and breathe a sigh of relief. Turning back I look at the sea of people, undulating gently to its own hidden rhythm. The person meeting me should be here soon.

         As I wait, I recall the first time I asked him to pick me up here. We agreed to meet under the information tableau, only I forgot to tell him that there were two of them. I stifle a laugh as I recall his bewilderment and confusion as he tried to look for me at both places at once. Suddenly his familiar figure catches my eye. He is trying to sneak up on me as he usually does and I allow him the privilege, pretending to be fascinated by the glossy magazine I hold in my hand.

         In but a moment a bouquet of flowers softly lands in my hands. He always brings flowers to the train station, a house bouquet of tiny carnations, baby breath, a rose, and a delightful confection of other flowers I can't identify. The distinguishing characteristic in each bouquet is the color of the rose; it's never the common burgundy. Instead, he picks the bouquet for its originality - one time the rose was a light purple, another time a pale dusky pink. This time the rose is a bright yellow - a little piece of sun nestled in earth's offering.

         With a cry of delight I finally turn around and remark, as I always do, "You shouldn't have, but they are beautiful."

         The smile I've loved for years lights up my father's face and he replies, "Of course I should have. Welcome home, sweetheart."