I don’t want to question her parenting, the lady with a nest of strewn charcoal hair and a fistful of gold and sapphire rings, but who hits their child on a train?
The trees are finally turning up here; the northern air, I think. I wonder if the snow fall at home has coaxed the last green and lively leaves to jump ship. By home, I mean Minnesota. That’s the first time in a long while that I’ve referred to that place as anything other than ‘the states.’ London has sort of become my residence now. I don’t question that it could be forever. Even with the blistering pace of the locomotive, the speed that makes your eyes dizzy and head feel loose when you watch the passing terrain, I feel suspended in time on this train ride. Maybe because it’s my first time on a train? At least, I think it is? I don’t ever remember doing this before and it seems like something I would not be able to forget. For instance, things just pop out on this journey over the UK. Little minutes remain like clouds overhead or just waiting to be dissected beneath the microscope of reflection. We’re passing a farm. I guess i don’t know it’s a farm, but it appears to be like a farm. There have been many instances of ‘like a farm’ on this little jaunt, but the ploughed and muddy earth of this land just after Newcastle is so oddly salient—fresh, relevant, present.
Beyond the wet brown ground, though how I spotted it I am not sure, I see a tree that towers with a spider’s grace and eight spindly branches full of spring fresh leaves stretching out and over the farmland. I imagine what it would feel like to blanket myself in the leaves and wrap them tightly around my body until I too could become a creature of Eden, until i know nothing but nature. The trunk is contorted a quarter or so from the top as if it’s cocking its head to the side and asking me why I haven’t joined her yet.
Suddenly, we are at a train station. There is a broad, wavering maple growing just beside a gray, stony overpass. Its leaves are yellow. As they fall to the ground, spinning like, sunbeams and fluttering like dandelion fluff on the wind, finally resting on the red and cloudy stones between the rail tracks, I have a sinister and freeing thought. If this is the last thing I see, the yellow leaves partnering off with the dirty, jumbled stones, I will be content. Not just content; I will be happy.
The sun pierces my cheeks and warms the side of neck, so I close my eyes and wait for everything around me to fade away. I wish that the train would disappear and leave me sitting in the middle of the copper tracks with the silver stones and golden leaves. A piece of ivy creeps around my ankles and caresses my calves as it wanders up and over my thighs and waist. It wraps my chest and arms tight against the earth and covers my face with twining vine and crisp, thin leaves. Close your eyes and let go, I hear the ivy whisper. Let yourself embrace the plants and the stones and the sun. Let us embrace you. So I do. I let the manifestations of nature consume and envelop my being. And just as we sink into the ground, ivy and all, the train jerks into movement, leaving the maple to wave goodbye in a wake of leaves and dust. Mom is wailing. Jesus, Isolte! Leave your sister be! Isolte starts to cry, dropping her blackberry into the open space beside her. To be 12 years old and have a blackberry must be very stressful, I think. Oh, now, quit your crying. Act like a big girl and leave your sister alone or will take your phone away. Isolte stops crying and looks over to her younger, prettier sister. The little one sticks out her tongue and scrunches up her face. Her mom slaps her across the face and a horrible jangling noise echoes from the jewellery in on her fingers. The three of them fall silent for ages. They do not move or make noise or breathe until: That’s better. Now, let’s keep quiet.
I fold back into my seat and pull my legs up to my chest before looking back out the window.
I keep quiet.
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