On The Train Ride Home
It was the usual Sunday. July fifteenth when the clouds hung loosely and grayish in the sky. We took our trip to the market by train at 8.30, just like the usual Sunday morning.
You were wearing the usual beige cardigan that I bought you when you were seventeen, nearly fifty-three years ago, the colors are still the same but now decorated with a little white spotting on its left arm.
“Chérie, would you please bring the tote bag? It’s near the kitchen counter.”
I pick up my fedora hat on the way and grab the tote bag and approached you who was standing in front of the door while fixing your silver-colored hair.
“Merci amour.” I smiled as you kissed my cheek softly, then you’ll put two books and our glasses into the bag, just like usual.
The trip went quietly. We spoke slowly, as we traveled down the street to the metro train, about how the flowers in our garden have blossomed so beautifully. Or must I say, you spoke slowly and softly about how the English rose bush under the double door window on the back porch has grown excessively, about the delphiniums and the foxgloves have blended so well with the wisteria which covers our gate pillar, how the peonies that you just planted two weeks ago has spawned its beautiful nebulous pink buds, and how you’re despairing about the Japanese camellia bush that has wilted yesterday, which I replied with a hum or a nod or say It’s alright, I’ll help you water them next time.
Then you’d smile or chuckle quietly with your hands covering your mouth, though I’d like it better when you didn’t do it because I can’t see your smile, the street that we walked on seems to dissolve, leaving nothing in my sight except for your beautiful wrinkled crescent smile. But then I’ll smile also. Or more precisely I already did.
The market was quite stuffed, rippled with fruits, and the air smelled faintly like bread and sunflowers and fresh vegetables, the air was plain hot but fresh. You bought some bagels, a few boxes of my favorite chocolates, and some fruits and vegetables. Alongside, you would chat with the merchant, asking them how are they doing, most of them already know you, by then I’d just stand beside you, putting the groceries in the bag, only speak when I’m being asked.
You would ask sometimes, about how the groceries would accrue, asking yourself, did I put this in the bag? then I’d tell you that the merchants added some things for you, for free. Then you’d chatter about how gracious they are. How could they resist not to, especially for you? The words are on the tip of my tongue but I’d just smile and nod instead and swallow it.
We always took the train to ride home. I asked you once,
“Do you like to take the train that much?” You nodded as I asked why.
“Because that way you can see the view. It’s way too alluring to miss, don’t you think?”
Thereafter, you’ll always take the window seat and never missed the chance to ask me, don’t you want to see the view? To I always shook my head, to which you replied with a shrug and a smile, not knowing that you are my view.
The trip went motionlessly. As soon as we sat, we will drown in our books, letting the quiet whirr of the train and the silence tranquilize the moment. I can’t bring myself to forget how I could smell your perfume, vanilla with a hint of coconut, sitting right next to me, with your glasses glistening irradiated by the sun, your white hair looking like silver silk. How I wish you could see the beauty that has blessed my eyes. I’ll pause my reading, just to stare at you for a whole minute, not more, because I know how bitter you are to be interrupted while reading. But deep down, I know how you love to be observed by me, from the small tuck of your smile on the corner of your lips. Right on this kind of moment, between the silence that we shared, the wordless love between the lock of our hands, I knew, always have been, that you are the half of my life.
That was seven months ago. Our last train ride home before I lose you.
Now that I have no one to share my silence, the tranquilizing sentiment has long gone, replaced by the throttle feeling that suffocates me nearly every day.
Now I barely remember how your skin used to feel against mine. The memories that I’ve been taking pains to keep, as much as I hate to admit, are slowly beginning to fade. Like a grain of dissoluble salt in the water. My mind since is just a hazy mist, leading nowhere, trying to find the view that it’s always craved.
Leads nowhere but the sight of you laying on your death bed in the hospital, surrounded by the stinging smell of antiseptic and medicine that I always despise. Your soft crinkled hand and the last smile that you didn’t cover because you’re too sick to do so, have been planted in my mind, and as excruciatingly as it is to remember, is the only way for me to keep as much of you in me.
I still remember our vow, until death keeps us apart. Death comes and does its job perfectly. As clean as a scalpel piercing right through my skin, but death doesn’t do me any justice, it leaves me with blood gushing over and over that the wound is unable to enclose.
What do I do with this love? I asked you, though I know it was painful for you to answer, yet you did it anyway. You laid your cold palm on my cheek, and I winced remembering how warm it was before, You do whatever you want Love, it’s all yours from the beginning, your voice was so soft, so quiet as if it was been taking away from you slowly.
Seven months later, in just a few days you would have been sixty-two, I sat on the porch, behind the double-door window, with your beige cardigan in my hand. The wind blew softly, carrying the sweet faint fragrance from the flowers over the garden. I looked over it, with a strange proud feeling knowing that I did water them and keep them alive, just like what I promised.
My mind wander to the streets that we used to walk together, the market, the merchants, and the train. Then I hope to myself, to you, that we, somewhere along the line, along all the walks that we share together, along the hushed conversation, along the brief amiability, along the tramway of the train, along the seats and the view from the train, leaving the trace of the love that we used to share. With a mere hope, that someone will feel the trail of our love, collect it up, and then take it on their train ride home.
