Nowhere, Everywhere

Sometimes things happen that have no apparent explanation. It is a truth you have known since you were a small child, but it took you a long time to accept it. Control is an illusion.

So, when you wake up on the train, you do not panic. You are not afraid. You simply take in your surroundings with a sense of curiosity. The first thing you notice is the ambient, droning sound of the train in motion. The squeal of the iron wheels and the repetitive rattle of the cars is like a lullaby. Your muscles are sore and stiff from being on the floor, and you stretch with a feline nonchalance.

The train car is empty, save for you. It is a passenger train with large windows, dark wood details and seats covered in plush fabric.

The view outside is breathtaking—all lush green trees, rolling hills and the occasional sprawling river. Nighttime is slowly crawling across the horizon, blues and purples steadily overtaking the oranges and reds of the sunset. It is all foreign and familiar at once.

With a start, you realize you cannot remember how you ended up on the train. You search your pockets and find that they are as empty as your memory; no wallet, no ticket.

Another person might be scared, concerned at least, but not you. If anything, you are relieved, filled with a sense that a great cosmic piece has finally been set in motion.

How many times had you wished for this exact scenario, fled to the tunnel near your house in the middle of the night and waited for the train to pass overhead? How many times did you fall to your knees and beat your chest and scream and scream and SCREAM, both wishing and fearing that someone would hear you? How many times did you wish you could become a passenger on the train and be transported into another life?

The sound of the door opening and closing catches your attention. A boy has joined you in your train car.

He regards you with a curious expression and big brown eyes. You do the same to him.

“Hello,” you offer.

In lieu of an answer, he places a tiny thumb in his mouth and thrusts the stuffed moose he is holding out towards you.

“Is that for me?” you ask.

He nods shyly.

“Thank you,” you say, taking the moose and clutching it to your chest like it is the most precious thing you have ever owned. It is well-loved, and the fur is worn away in places. You can’t help but feel an immediate fondness already blooming for your young companion.

He is young, maybe four or five and skinny in the way that little boys often are at his age. While you are still doting on the moose, the boy places one of his tiny hands in your larger one and pulls you vehemently forward.

You do not fight him as he ushers you through the door that leads to the adjoining train car.

This car is nothing like yours. Where yours had a luxury vintage charm, this one has a sleek and modern subway style. An elderly woman sits on one of the benches.

She looks up when you enter like she was waiting for your arrival—her eyes glimmer with knowing.

The boy lets go of your hand, looking up at you expectantly. You give him back his moose, and he takes it gladly before joining the old woman on the bench. He curls up to her side, nuzzling sweetly into the soft curves of her body. She rests a gentle hand on his head, and he closes his eyes.

She is beautiful—the old woman, in a way that has nothing to do with appearance and everything to do with her presence. Everything about her radiates lightness. Her dark skin bears the evidence of many years lived, and she wears a beaded shawl that adds to her regality. You are humbled just to be near her with all her beauty and grace—like an ancient oak tree.

She beckons you to her with a withered hand and a kind smile. You are drawn to her like a planet caught in her orbit.

When you reach her, she beckons you even closer until your face is close enough for her to reach out and touch. Gently, she cups both of your cheeks in her hands. So gently.

Her palms are calloused, yet her touch is the softest thing you have ever felt. She studies your face with great interest before her thoughtful eyes land on yours.

Then, she speaks to you with a voice that is as worn as a favourite t-shirt. “Welcome, my child.”

You feel a warmth spread through you that touches the deepest, most hidden parts of you. When was the last time you felt so fully seen, so fully embraced? When was the last time anyone had looked at you with so much tenderness? You want to bask in the feeling forever.

“Where are we going?” You hear yourself ask.

The woman ponders your question like you have asked her something very profound. She takes her time before answering and wipes a tear that has slid from your eye without your permission.

“Nowhere,” she says finally. “Everywhere.”

You do not understand what that means, but something in the wistful lilt of her voice stops you from prodding further. She knows a secret you have yet to figure out, something sublime, and in this moment, that is enough for you.

It is just you, the woman, and the boy, all of you together. Together. Going somewhere. Or nowhere. But together.