The Train Ride To Nowhere

We boarded the train that day
two strangers bound for Dallas;
alone we were, unknowingly alone
in differing shades of sorrow
that actually reflected each other
in silence.

He seemed nothing special
a man of medium height, thin, pale
but his eyes bled secrets and pain
begging to be told, begging to be shared.

Over he came, questioning me about dinner tickets,
what time? where was the dining car? how did it work?
and a last surprise,
could he join me for dinner?

I am kind in answer and accept his company,
because his silent weeping was my own.

So we talk
a shy, uncertain sonata of two strangers
on a train
bound for divergent destinations.

He has a black bag, wrinkled worn leather
he tells me it holds all he owns
and it holds his insulin,
all he has left of it;
the insurance had run out
and he had no money for more.

I listenly politely, eyes following the Illinois
farms and dying small towns
outside the eyes of the train.
(eyes and eyes, revealing so much)

No money, all spent on the ticket
to board him here, next to me
Destination?
Dallas and nothing;
lost his job
wife had left him,
the sad stories of all of us,
the ones we tell with silent weeping eyes.

I puzzled over this, saying,
"You can't go there to nothing!
Where will you stay?"
A shake of his head, lank hair falling over his eyes,
those eyes with their silent pleading.
I had no answer,
for I didn't know the question,
though I did know--
a dark denial there.

We ate dinner then, the Amtrak song of doors and wheels
repeating endlessly
as we flowed down the tracks through the long night,
talking now and then, dozing on and off,
even a few scraps of laughter
coming like shining manna from above.

Before we entered Union Station
I gave him a stern lecture on the dangers
of sleeping out on the streets of the city
stern, yet warm in compassion;
he was so able to bring that flame
out of my own darkness.

His kind regard watched me close,
from those eyes
those eyes,
and in a moment of impulse
I wrote down my name and number for him on a scrap of paper
should he not find a place to stay, a place to go to.

So, arrive we do
then a quick farewell
a close hug for luck and hope
and we diverge into the moiling currents of the station.

I am home for several days
when the phone rings
it is for me, but I do not know the voice
but it is HIS sister
and I smile, inquire as to his well-being
believing he had come to good fortune
hoping he had not been homeless on the streets.

It was not to be--
fortune passed by unheeding
hope fled to a distant shore of sorrow;
she tells me:
he had killed himself
there at the nowhere station
death instant in the men's bathroon.

I listened--
horror rising, shock screaming,
tears dimming, swimming in my eyes
oh those eyes and their bleeding!

I stammer and wail questions, comments
--I didn't know he had a gun
--Why did he do it?
--How did she know my phone number?
--I'm so sorry
--I should have known
--I should have done something!
(I am screaming guilt at my own inaction!)

It was a note, she said,
his final words to the world,
where he had mentioned my kindness to him,
said I'd made his last moments pleasurable, worthwhile.

She thanked me then for that gift I had given,
given without even knowing it had been a gift.
and I broke then
flooded by tears and remorse
because after all! after all!
because my pain had recognized his
but I had not spoken out,
not spoken out, nor taken action
left to silence, that damned dark denial.

She thanked me once again and we ended the call.
I do not even know what I said there,
at the end.

It was a sorrow to me then
and is still one to this day.
I cannot even recall his name, to my bitter shame
but I remember him, remember the train ride to nowhere
remember those eyes
and the gentle shyness lostness of his manner.

I pray he found his peace
in a bullet.

The living, we go on riding the tracks of our lives
(how many of us are riding in silence to nowhere?
how many bleeding eyes are being denied in darkness?)
and now and then we look back to where we have been,
where we have journeyed,
and honor, once more, in compassion's heart
those who touched us ever so deeply--
as did the kind nameless man,
riding a train bound for nowhere
on the day he ended the final
bleeding of his eyes.

~Cail
3/12/04
...this honoring long overdue to him