Ages of Me

I can hear the chuffing effort of the train, and even though my eyes are closed, I know rain is pounding against the window. I keep my eyes shut as if I am still sleeping because it just feels so good to press my eyelids together-doors against the world. At eighty-two years old, I could use a few more barriers between myself and this rapidly changing world.

It is just like the first time I was on a train. I was so scared of the noise and the swaying movement that I kept my eyes squeezed shut as tight as I could and squeezed my father’s hand even tighter. I was eleven years old at the time; far too old to be scared of trains, but it was not only trains that I was afraid of. I was afraid of everything-a trait directly inherited from my neurotic, anxiety-filled and anxiety-inducing mother.

“I would rather she be scared than dead.” My mother was fond of saying whenever my father would complain about my unwillingness to leave the house. Then she would stroke my hair and give me a little half-smile. To this day I am doubtful of whether my mother was capable of really smiling.

So, it was special, this outing with my father, when he took me to ride the train. So special, in fact, that we began to do it every Saturday. The week was for work, and Sunday for church, but Saturday was just for me, Daddy, and the train. Even long after I had grown out of my fear, I would close my eyes and revel in the feel of my hand pressed safe and secure in his.

I can’t remember if I bought a ticket for this trip. I sleep so deeply nowadays that I’m all discombobulated when I wake up. I’ll keep my eyes closed and hope the man who collects tickets will just keep on walking and not bother this old woman.

I think I’m ready to open my eyes now. I wish I had kept them closed, because now my bones are chilly, and my heart is beating so strangely.

The train is full of passengers, but they are all me.

I get up and stand in the middle of the aisle. I am surrounded by myself at different ages, all with eyes closed and foreheads pressed against the window glass.

I walk up to the me that is directly across the aisle from where I was sitting. It is me as a preteen, too-big glasses and too-small sundress, favorite orange barrette clipped firmly on its throne of hair, not matching my outfit in the slightest, as it seldom did. I reach out my hand to touch her shoulder…my shoulder, but recoil. I am afraid she will be cold and clammy like a corpse.

“H…hello?” I stammer instead.

Her…my eyes pop open and I jump. Her eyes don’t blink, and she smiles in a way that looks almost like a smirk. I remember the expression well. “What do you want?” She smacks her lips as if she was chewing bubblegum. I remember how cool I thought girls who chewed bubblegum were, but I detested the taste, so I had to settle with pretending.

“What’s going on here?” I asked. “Why am I seeing myself like this? What’s happening?”

My preteen self rolls her eyes and reaches out and grabs my hand.

The train gives a little shudder and I brace myself against the seat.

“Careful, it’s easy to lose your balance in here.” I’m staring into the eyes of a young Jim Daley, my high school sweetheart and husband, who I first fell in love with in the seventh grade.

I feel suddenly shy, giddy almost, which is a ridiculous thing for an old woman to feel, especially after spending a lifetime with this man, who I am seeing now as a boy.

His smile turns my stomach to goo. He winks and walks away, and I think I could fly and throw up at the same time.

I reach a hand up to my hair and feel my orange barrette sitting erect in place. I look down and see my knobby knees poking out of a sundress that never did fit right. The wrinkles and liver spots are gone from my hands. The skin is young, supple, and tanned. We are inseparable, the two of us. Preteen me and old woman me are one and the same.

The air shifts and she is gone. The butterflies in my stomach settle their flight. I am an old woman, just an old woman, again. I look to her seat, but it is empty.

What did I like so much about Jim? His face is a blur.

What color was my favorite barrette? Or was it a headband?

The train picks up speed and I feel a jolt.

That empty seat on the train is glaringly obvious amongst the many ages of me. I feel like someone important sat there, but I can’t seem to recall who. I feel sad. There sat an age of me that I will never get back.

I walk up to another seat and see myself in a wedding dress, but the edges are faded, and the details blurred, as if I’m viewing it from behind dirty glass.

She is not looking at me, so I touch her arm to get her attention. She does not turn, but I feel happy, so, so happy. I take a step back and feel the swish of my long gown. I feel more beautiful than I have ever felt in my life.

A tall man who smells of aftershave walks up and takes my arm. He leans down and kisses the side of my face, whispering. “Lovely day for a train ride, but nothing could be lovelier than you.”

Why is his voice so muffled? I can barely understand what he’s saying.

I cannot remember his name, though it is obvious he is someone very important to me.

The train jerks again and I grab the edge of the seat to keep from falling. The train is going fast, so fast. Too fast.

I make my way down the aisle as fast as I can, clutching the edges of one seat after another. I am trying to find a version of myself that I recognize, but they are growing more and more blurry, the details of their faces fading fast. I find more and more empty seats.

Faster, faster the train chugs on. Too fast. Too fast.

I feel alone. I want to scream. I want to hit something.

I feel like a little girl again, afraid of everything, only brave when my father held my hand. My father is not here now. I am alone and I think the fear will consume me.

I want the train to stop.

But it does not stop. It goes faster and I’m pulling my way up and down the aisle begging all the ages of me to stay.

A giant jerk and I am standing on solid ground. Alone.

I watch the train speed off into the distance.