The Journey Begins May 2012
Often,
it is difficult to tell exactly where a story begins and ultimately, one
never really knows where it will end. Does my journey begin where one
seemingly ends? Does my story begin with my birth? Or did my story
really begin when I left my home in Melrose to dare to be things, and
do things, I thought I never could? Does it begin at that stage in my
life when I began to feel a deeper more intellectual connection to my
surroundings? I guess I could say it was that particular passage of
time, that reawakening, which has driven me to begin to write once
again. I am now more at peace with my life, more spiritual, more
intelligent, and more in tune with this planet, and with my sense of self
than ever before. I find that I am more aware of how all the things
that I touch, or see, or feel, are connected to my deeper sense of
self, and, to each other. I know now that these past three years,
that process, that growth, have ultimately prepared me for not only
this amazing adventure that am about to embark upon, but for the rest
of my life, no matter where that life may lead.
There are many layers
to each of us. To each of our lives. They exist like rings within a
tree, brush strokes upon a canvas, or notes in a song. Each one of us
contains within ourselves, and within our personal journeys, layer
upon layer of…stories. So I guess, for all intents and purposes, my
journey, this story, starts today. It begins with a simple ride to
the train station from my best friend, and a simple encounter between
two simple, beautiful people.
Into the Sun
His
name was Willie, and his skin had a sheen to it like the blackest of
coal. He walked slowly up the train tracks pulling his maroon bag
along behind him. She sat upon the bench waiting patiently for the
train, squinting into the sunshine and watching as Willie approached.
He looked her way and she gave him a quick nod and a smile. He
returned her greeting with a grin and a slight tip of his hat.
Silently she removed her bags from the bench beside her and offered
him a seat. Again he grinned as he sat down holding his back and
declaring aloud that, “These old bones are not what they used to be
lil sister.” She nodded in understanding. Soon, they began to
speak. Gently at first. Then, with a deeper familiarity, as if they
had been friends from times long since gone. After a time their
voices took on a character and a vigor of two people who loved to
tell tales. They began to weave. Not tales just about the weather,
but about trains, journeys, and soon-to-be destinations. About family
and friends and past transgressions. He spoke with the lilt of a
black man raised in the Deep South. He spoke of the memories that hung in his mind like a mist that shimmered and glowed in the early
morning sun. She spoke with a southern drawl that she had garnered
from her years living in Florida, but which also hid her true
background; that of her upbringing in the great white north. The
differences between the two were apparent. But, there they sat. He
with his steely black skin and curly white hair. Her with her white
skin was browned by the sun, her hair bleached by the sea. He spoke of
his mother who was now over 100 years old, who had lived in a time
when whites and blacks didn’t share benches at train stations. She
spoke of a time when, while growing up, she had never even seen a
black man. Differences abound, but there was a deeper, more palatable
connection that they left unspoken. They sat. Comfortable in the
silent pauses, he occasionally checked his watch, she listened
intently, straining to see if she could hear the sound of the train
clicking down the tracks, or hear the distant call of the train's
whistle floating across the countryside. Eventually, she reached into
her rucksack and pulled out a plastic box filled with sweet, ripe
strawberries. She opened them, gave them a glance, and then offered the
first pick to Willie. He hesitated just a moment and then picked the
biggest, ripest, sweetest, strawberry in the bunch. She smiled up at
him, nodded, and carefully chose a berry for herself. They sat
quietly then. Two people sitting on a bench at a train station,
munching happily on the fresh field-ripened berries, enjoying each
other's company, listening for the train, and squinting...into the sun.
