May 18, 2009
Greetings from the junction,
Something woke me up during the night. It was not a big change. I was simmering in sleep, floating just below
the surface of consciousness.
I don’t ever remember dreams, if I’m having them. Somewhere in the last dozen or so years that
part of my brain stopped checking in with me.
I wake up with fractured memories of events that happened during the
night; barking dog, car headlights, toilets flushing. But not dreams.
The pillow was hot and flat.
During the last few hours, while I was still wrestling with the unsolved
issues of the previous day, I dodged in and out of sleep, peeking occasionally
at the clock to see when I could reasonably call it morning.
I swung my legs over the edge and pulled myself out of bed,
crept across the bedroom carpet, waving my hands in front of me. Somewhere in the dark two doors, maliciously
ajar, waited to stub my toes or worse.
Down the steps, trying not to make my knees pop in the silence, I moved
toward the kitchen.
Standing in front of the sink, wisps of a song from the day
before playing in my head.
‘I open my door, and here’s what occurs,
A pretty little girl with pretty little curls,’
Something –something-something. Hmmmhmmmhmmm.
Strains of a banjo.
My eyes are burning from the lack of sleep, somehow causing
my ears to roar. I run the water in the
sink, wishing it was quieter. In the
dark kitchen I reach into the cupboard, pat around looking for a glass.
Empty. They are all on the counter,
milling about like commuters waiting for the next dishwasher to pull into the
station.
I rinse out the least crusty glass, fill it and shut off the
faucet. Stretching on my toes I peer
through the kitchen window to see if any deer are in the yard. A breeze pushes through the open window.
And the sound of a train.
It occurs to me right then that it is not winter. The window is open because it is a cool
spring night. It would be called ‘warm’
if you considered the standards of the last six months.
I don’t notice trains unless they are blocking my way. Sometimes I’ll admire the graffiti, wonder if
hoboes still ride the trains to get around.
But they don’t register normally.
Maybe they used to.
This night train is making a racket, clanking and creaking,
moaning metal on metal, even from a mile away I can hear the wheels thumping as
they drop off the crossing. I can
picture the curve the train will make before it moves across Main street, hear
the brakes screeching as the engineer slows the cars to a walking speed.
I put the glass back with his brothers on the counter,
making more noise than I intended as the glasses protest the crowding. I can see better now in the dim light and I
tiptoe to the back door and quietly let myself out.
In the yard I stand in my bare feet, my flannel pajama
pants, the night sweat drying on me in the slight breeze. I can hear the leaves moving on the
trees. How did I not notice the leaves
were back? I listen to the soft sshh of
the leaves, punctuated by the staccato of the train making its way through
town.
The sound of the trains at night have been muffled by the
closed windows, so maybe they come every night, I don’t know. But somewhere in my half awake state I picture
this train bringing me a new season, a warm season. Longer days, sun baked afternoons, running in
shorts. Eating outside, biking with my
family, ice cream cones. Color.
This spring train is late, as far as I am concerned, long
overdue. But I am not going to harbor
any grudge. It’s here now. I breathe in the night, stretching my lungs
to get as much of the new warmth as I can.
It is still too early to see any softening of the night sky, no hint of
the sun yet. Maybe there is still some
sleeping left to do.
The sounds of the night train are fading as I climb the
stairs back to my bed. Each step my
ankle creaks or my knee cracks, and in the quiet house I am louder than the
boxcars bumping on the tracks. Before I
get into bed, I slide the window all the way open.
When I wake the next morning I can still smell the cool
night air, still feel the vibrations from the ratcheting metal noises of the
train. And I wonder if I am remembering
a dream.
It doesn’t matter.
Outside the sky is opening early, the sun is setting the new hours for
this season. We need more day because
there will be so much to enjoy, so much to really hear and see and smell.
Hope this finds you sleeping with window open,
David
Copyright © 2009 David Smith
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