I realize much of my
writing has been circling around themes of navigation, yet as the words flow,
formed letter by letter by the click of my fingers connected to my heart, I
can’t help but think of my surrounding journeys taking place.
And the theme must surface once more.
As I lean against the
chipped-white, metal billboard supporting my weight and the many maps of London,
I am able to look left and right, following the tracks carrying trains which
carry passengers swiftly in the direction of our choice.
The rain taps lightly down into a glistening
mist, as humans are bundled tight while holding their newspapers and thermoses
of hot tea close.
It’s quiet.
The next train isn’t due for another 3
minutes.
Without the hum of the tracks
shaking against the mighty vibrations of the train, the stillness in the air
creates a gentle environment.
Still not
solid on which train I am supposed to get on, I look at the map to my side once
more.
How do I know to go left or go
right?
How do I know to stand on
platform 3 instead of platform 1?
How do
I know?
I wonder.
My grandfather worked
as a conductor for the Pennsylvania train station, calling out the station stops
across the North Philadelphia line.
Growing up with him, if he wasn’t singing his Central High School Alma
Mater, he would call out the stops for his grandchildren; giving us a piece of
history and chapter to his story.
As a
brilliant man who helped build rockets and went on to be the Dean of Engineering
at a major university, I knew him as my PopPop Tex, the man who sent me
postcards wherever he traveled and kept a picture I drew of him in his wallet.
Before bedtime, my brother and I would read
books about trains and have our PopPop call out the stations to us.
“Calling out, Trenton, Newark, New York,
Willington, Baltimore, Delaware and Chestnut Hill Local”
As I lean against the
chipped-white, metal billboard supporting my weight and the many maps of
London, the speaker system announces in a voice ever British, “This is the
southern service to Beckham Junction, calling out stops at Peckham Rye, East
Dulwich, North Dulwich, Tulse Hill, Streatham.”
Tulse Hill.
That’s my stop.
This summer, I was able
to spend cherished time with my grandpa.
The catch: he didn’t know he was spending time with me.
As Alzheimer’s destroys every synapse to his
memory, I have become a fluent ever-passing moment in his mind, never to be
remembered - but always to be loved.
I
was able to watch with awe as he filled his days with blind trust to the
kindness in humanity surrounding him.
He
relied on questions, trusting the loving strangers sitting close could provide
answers, and never held back to express his gratitude.
His thank you, “I’m going to tell you I love
you every way I know how.”
As I lean against the
chipped-white, metal billboard supporting my weight and the many maps of
London, I smile.
I look left and right
at the tracks leading the trains, and thank God for conducting me through this
life.
For now, I can choose and know
which train stop is mine to get to school, but as I think of my grandpa, I’d
like to rely on the blind trust of knowing there is a much bigger track I am
on, with the diesel’s hum of faith leading the way.
God knows. He knows.
You don’t need no ticket, just thank the
Lord.
