Waiting For The Train

an essay about waiting for the train

I was waiting for the train. To my left, sat two boys and their dad. We were all sitting on benches scattered about on an old outdoor platform. It was early summer, and the air was a cool crisp breeze whispering under our ears. The dad was talking on the phone, and although I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I heard him say, “I’m just watching the trains go by with the boys.” If this idyllic, snapshot of a moment had oozed just one more ounce of innocence to it, I would've believed it to be staged. Skepticism aside, I tuned in.  

While they were waiting, they were playing a game. The younger one asked the older boy,

“What is the opposite of white?”

“Black!”

“What is the opposite of front?”

“Back!”

“Hmm..okay... What is the opposite of green?”

I perked up. We all thought about it for awhile.

The dad chuckled. The older one stalled for time.

“Like, on the color wheel?”

The younger one shook his head, grinning ear to ear.

Right then, we could hear the train whistling its arrival from the horizon. I rose from the bench in slow motion, hoping to hear how this stalemate would be resolved. But the boys had long since abandoned their game. It was time to watch the train. I stepped on to that majestic thing.

As the train pulled away, I spotted the boys from the window. They had risen from the bench, in excitement.

I eased into my seat, still flushed from being reminded what it felt like to be a kid.