Her

I could tell I was dreaming because I saw her face. That’s the only place I get to see her now, in dreams. Her golden hair bounced around her face so I couldn’t make it out clearly, the locks of waves covering the intricate beauty she held. Her arms were stretched out as she danced around the field we used to share our Sundays with. She was wearing her wedding dress. Another sign this wasn’t real. The ivory lace swayed around her delicate figure as she spun.

“While I’m far away from you my baby…” She looks back and I see her face for the first time. I feel relieved. I haven’t forgotten her face yet.

“I know it’s hard for you baby…” Her voice smoothly reaches me. It’s beautiful. Our song, coming from the lips of my lover.

“Because it’s hard for me, my baby.” My emotions start to reach my eyes and although I wish I could savour this moment, all I want is for her to stop. This moment isn’t real.

“And the darkest hour is just before dawn” She looks at me again. Our eyes meet, and my heart stops.

And then she’s gone.

I never open my eyes when I first wake up. Hoping to savour the last moments with her fresh in my mind. With closed eyes my head is vibrating, bouncing against a hard surface, and it shakes her out of my mind. I’m not lying down, and light screeches of brakes fill my ears. The air is cold, and there is a slight breeze, as if someone left a window open. This is not where I remember falling asleep.

When I peel my eyes open I see that there are six rows of dining tables with red velvet booths on both sides. The ceiling has an ornamental gold decal tile and the soft golden lights reflect off it, creating a warm glow over the car. My head was pressed into one of the windows that stretched out along the sides of the train car. My feet are bare, I see my shoes laying below my table on the green shag carpet. We are up high. Spruce tree tops reach the window and we tower just below the snowy mountain tops. I look around for more people and see two other people at the other end of the train car beginning to wake up. They are also barefoot and confused.

Here’s the thing; I vividly remember my night before. I was looking at pictures of her and I drinking her favourite wine, it was disgusting to me. One thing I’ve learnt is people often make themselves suffer to remember the ones they love. Dredging up old memories to cut into hardened hearts. I remember getting to our wedding day. I remember ruining my favourite picture of her because the wine dredged up lingering emotions. Her face became distorted from the tears that dripped down my face. I remember breaking my wine glass out of anger. Those photos were all I had left of her, and my greatest fear is losing my memory of her. It used to be losing her, but now that’s just my worst memory. A thing of the past. I don't remember my head hitting my pillow, but that usually happens when I drink. The bottle gets polished off and so do I.

But I definitely wasn’t on a train. Or even close to a train station. I was home alone. Like I am every night.

The peculiar thing about losing your memory, is how desperately you try to regain what was once lost. Neural pathways buried too deep to recover. the desperate need to understand what's going on. Disbelief of the gap in our precious timeline. My brain flew through all of these emotions while I studied the other passengers.

They were beginning to panic, I observed. There was another man about my age, in his mid forties I guessed, and a young girl, who looked to be his daughter. They were slumped together before they woke up. They were speaking a different language, something Eastern European. The father grabbed his daughter by the shoulders and whispered frantically. They would exchange words and then glances in my direction. It took me a while to realise they were afraid of me.

Of course the fear makes sense. I too am questioning why two people who are related are on this train together while I’m here alone. At least we all are barefoot. The one thing to unite us all. I laugh to myself and wide eyed, they grip each other, frozen fearful figures peering at me.

“Where are we?” I try asking, hoping to clear up any unsure thoughts.

They stare back.

I take a step forward to close the distance between us. Maybe I’m too far and the train is too loud for them to hear me. With each step I take, they back further away, trying to maintain the distance as much as possible. I sigh in frustration. I can’t communicate with these people. They appear to know the same amount as me as to why we are on this train. This loud rickety train which is speeding through the mountains.

As I look out the window, I watch us wind our way through the scenic scenery, but I can’t focus on the details. Trees are black blurs. Birds are blips in the skyline. Why on God’s Earth are we moving so fast?

One thing is obvious, I need to get to a different car to get some answers. With my back turned to the father and daughter pair, I make my way to the door. The lock pulls up effortlessly and just as I’m about to pull the latch to the door a thick Polish accent calls out from behind me.

“Don’t.” The father’s voice is firm, and gruff. He had the grit of a smoker in his language.

I digest him with my eyes. His face was clean shaven, so you could see the lines of disapproval too many years on this Earth had etched into his face. A permanent frown sat under a bulbous nose, much like a misshapen potato. His suite was well-worn and had holes in the pockets so the lining peeked through. His feet had calluses and were yellowed and worn in. He looked like a hardworking, poor man. The father gripped his daughter with a passionate determination to protect her. She was young. Six, maybe seven years old. Curiosity still danced in her eyes and you could see her itching to know what was beyond the door.

My hands moved the latch slightly further, ignoring the father’s demand.

“We’re moving too fast.” His accent made the words hard to understand, but I understood the message.

I toiled with my own curiosity. The need to figure out where we were, the need to have my questions answered. My eyes met the little girl’s and I watched her struggle to free her hand. I watched her peony plaid dress flutter from her sudden movement and all I can think about is my dream of her. Of how free she looked. She emitted the same youthful glow, a fearlessness of the unknown.

I watched her break free from her father and think about the night I lost her. How she ran away from me dancing with arms flowing up and down beside her delicate frame. As I freeze, her father lunges behind her. Grabbing at air, desperate to reach his kins hand. Frenzied to keep her by his side. The daughter grabs my hand that is gripping the latch to the door and I do nothing to stop what's about to happen.

We were leaving dinner, the day I lost her. It was our anniversary and she was elated. Intoxicated off of our love and a cheap bottle of wine. We were laughing all night, dancing to our favourite songs. She was singing The Mama’s and Papa’s to me and I laughed when she was off key.

As we were leaving the restaurant, she sang and twirled, dancing to the tune in her head . She kept her eyes on me. She always wanted to look at me. I always wanted to look at her. I was looking at her face when the car came. She was ahead of me, twirling in the street. I admired her beautiful figure. I treasure that moment. The one before the last.

I don’t think of how her body crumpled. How it broke like a used doll. Limbs in unnatural positions. I don’t think of that, because I can’t.

As the daughter grabs my hand, the crumpled body is all I see. Just like in that moment I do nothing to stop it. I sit back and watch. I watch the father scream for his daughter. I watch the door being pushed open.

And I watch as she slips out into the freezing void.