Last Stop

Do you feel that? The gentle roll of axle and chain across chassis body. Suspension springs holding it aloft, cushioned and cathartic. Coupled systems soft and light. There is no momentum, no damping, no stopping now. Only the rhythmic clicking of linked carriages. It will arrive when it is ready; when you are ready.

Awaken, yes, awaken now.

****

The hues of amber and honey roll across a sheen of mahogany and cherry oak. Buttoned cushions and checkered upholstery ordain the furnishings inside the carriage. It is pleasant and comforting to your traveled eyes.

You look confused. Yes, that is quite alright. I see this same puzzled look every time; I relish in the understanding that follows. It is like the airfoils that guide the dandelion’s seed; freeing. This look, it rests on your face, the curiosity of searching eyes. It will all make sense soon.

I see by the way you stand, by the way your aged hand rolls in delay over the smooth wooden surfaces around you, by the grace in your step and the ease in your posture that, behind the itching question, there is acceptance. Deep in the echoes of your mind it is both phantom and ubiquitous.

The carriage is not large, its four walls perfectly palatable; a glowing reflection inverted in your eyes. You find him, tall and handsome, a man behind the bar. His bow-tie reaching and ruffled like the wings of a black swan. He motions for you to sit, a warm smile across his face.

He is familiar to you. Someone from your childhood, a grandfather perhaps. One who’s lap you’ve nuzzled into many times. His skin looks velvety and fair as he leans over the bar with a drink; his musky cologne welcomed like a vessel back to its home port. It has been a lifetime since you last shared his company. Be with him in this moment.

You laugh, you smile, you cry. You talk and he understands; he listens and your heart is made calm. He winks to you as friends long and old take their seats beside you. Hearty slaps to the back and squeezes of the shoulder ground you as they invite themselves into the evolving conversation. You reminisce of promises kept and secrets slipped as you cling to tales of the good-old days gone by. Belly laughs and teary eyes sip the moments away like an aged red wine. These moments are not diluted but are whole and rich and thick with meaning like a sweet nectar. You lean into them, floating across these calm warm waters.

One by one they kiss you and hug you and say their goodbyes. Before long the last has left.

You finish your drink and look to the man behind the bar. He makes his way around and embraces you. He leans in again with that old musky smell and whispers something into your ear. He smiles, winks, and bids you farewell motioning to the back of the carriage where you see a door leading to the next cabin. You exchange a quiet look of appreciation and he nods to you with that same comforting smile you remember as a child.

Your steps are light but confident. You walk with intention and purpose but without rush. What is expedient has already passed. Is past. The rest is for you.

The embroidered wood-carved door glides open before you reach it. An aroma carried on a gentle breeze finds its way to you. Your nostrils flare as you inhale the vibrancy of favorite meals. The smell is intoxicating. Your eyes roll back and your memories trace these aromatic steps to a table. To many tables. Square, round, worn, crayon stained, freshly polished; dining tables at fancy restaurants, and that very first warped second hand black-walnut table. All at once you are there; seated in these moments. Walking into this carriage you open your eyes to a massive table. Each cross-section of a different wood, a different finish, a different feel; their grains linear and interlocked.

Yes, a cross-section each their own. A flowing river paused in time.

The faces of those seated around the table greet you, excited to share in this togetherness. Along the perimeter you see your mother and father and brothers and sisters. They look young and eager; filled with life. You see your children dressed in overalls and princess gowns; their fingers stained with sauce and markers. They giggle with innocent eyes and impatient toothy grins; their unsteady hands holding cutlery without grace or practice.

Beside them are refined men and women; their eyes the same as those younger but worn and aged. Their smiles hide the wisdom and knowledge earned through labored experiences. Their suits, tasteful dresses, and well kept features conceal endless appreciation and effervescent love. Beside them still are children you do not recognize but whose likeness is found in those same men and women. They laugh cheerfully as the older cut their food and monitor their eating. The air is crisp and the moments are slow as you find your seat at the table. Plates are passed, food is shared, and stories are exchanged as laughter and clinking porcelain sing into the spaces of the carriage.

As the last plate is cleared and the final story told you sit back content; observing with a timeless understanding what was, what is, and what will be; the moments you share and the moments that will be shared.

There is peace in that; I am glad that you have found it, but there is more for you.

The back door beyond the table opens gracefully. Those around the table stand and give their goodbyes. There are no tears, only hope and understanding. Only gratitude. Their embraces lead you to the opened door. You don’t look back as it closes behind you.

****

Where this story begins and where it ends matters not, my child. Apogee and perigee, alpha and omega, finite and infinite. They are seamless to me; a planar helix unbound and without perimeter. I am not above. No. That would be unpoetic. My form is simply parallax.

But this is not my story, for the storyteller has none. I live in the volumes of these ancient and new libraries; penning first drafts and shelving completed works. I am the gold lace embroidered in leather, I am the binding, the book mark, the inkwell and quill. I clear the dusts of time resting on you like the winds over the great plains; for I breathe your life. I refresh you as the fawn seeks the brook. I receive you back; my smoke stained mourning dove. Chapter by chapter, verse by verse; I am unfolded and unfurrowed like the seas first laid upon the foundation.

It is almost time to mark the signatures for binding, my codex. Walk this passage one last time and I will exhale you, my words unwritten.

****

Metal wheels rumble below your feet as the train glides along steel rails and wooden planks. There is only this sound as you enter the next carriage.

This room I could have filled with anything. Your favorite things, or nothing at all. It would not have mattered. It would have been but periphery. There is only soft golden lighting for you to see. To see what you have so desperately wanted to see; to stand before the one that made you the happiest, the safest, the most clairvoyant and circumspect in all your needs. The one whose life you were given and he yours. The one whose heart and soul all was borne out for. You are two lakes; deep and complex and muddied by your own flaws joined by a strait of promises and compromises and love undying. Indeed, the one that left you most alone when whose binding I not so long ago bound. In those eyes you are lost, and found, in an eternity.

Take what he gives you and find your rest in his embrace.

I hold my breath and the air is still for you. I lay hold my outstretched hand and time is still for you; for in this moment there is no such thing. Brevity and prolixity are one and the same as they fold and weave a garment perfected, complete.

He fades now to the other side, soft and slow as a drifting pine sways on the hillside. There is only a column now; white and pure, Corinthian, unstained. On it rests a book. Your book. The pages all turned; there is but the one. The last. Finish this story; this perfect, beautiful, manifest story. Finish now, for he waits in the epilogue.

Steady hands guide you as inked words flow onto the page in a well-practiced form. Pen and prose stitched together; the fabric of reality and eventuality. These words, your signature, glow on the page; their light a cascading shimmer across your figure.

You notice it, yes. The rhythmic hollow clinking of linked cars has hushed. The train has stopped. Yes, you can feel it. Quiet. Stationary.

A door. One final door. It opens. Light illuminates. No darkness, only radiance. It floods every corner. It is warm on your skin and light upon your fair gray eyes. It is welcoming. Calling.

I exhale.

And you breathe.

****

In this library there is no measure of distance, no definition of index. The exhaustiveness of this work is placated only by its timelessness. Your pages are long and your story full of complexity; distilled and refined over its narrative. But now I close you front to back. You are completed, my words now written. Perfected in your flaws, your signature is finality.

I place you into one row of countless others, amidst columns that stretch beyond comprehension. To your left is a set of bound pages that equal your own. Long and fulfilled; a fair companion. To your right is a book much thinner. Its brevity a simple punctuated moment. Tragic and heartfelt. Yet, in its own right, it is complete. And this intricacy, like a singular element in the crystal's lattice, is entangled in the evolution of another’s plot. Be well with this one and keep her short chapters warm and bindings safe.

As I step back into the shifting arrays of this grand library I see you well in your place. Perhaps, one day, I will pick you up and read you again.