Faces in a Railroad Station

I had this short story published in a collegiate literary magazine. It earned a Second Place award in The Indiana Collegiate Press Association competition.

As I began my trek to the old, weather beaten railroad station, I lugged my dirt covered bag behind. My train was not to depart until late evening, but I had begun my walk in the high noon sun to arrive on time. Oh, how thrilled Aunt Sarah would be when I arrived in New York City to spend the summer with her! Nevertheless, Aunt Sarah's soon-to-be-joy did little to ease the burning of my feet on the hot stones. Painful enough were the two-sizes-too-small shoes, without the holes which had opened on the left sole.

Several miles and two blisters later, I arrived at the Brookville Railroad Station. Dusty heat and barrels of noisy chatter and laughter burst through the door as I opened it. A wailing baby intensified his yell despite the warmth of his mother's cradling arms. Helplessness and fatigue besieged the young mother. I decided at that moment that I did not want any of those crying babies hanging around my neck.

I diverted my attention to a ruckus on the other side of the station. A giant of a man with brilliant red hair and a fuzzy beard bellowed at the top of his booming voice at a small bit of a man wearing glasses. From what I could perceive (without being an obvious snoop) the small man had carried off the burly fellow's baggage by mistake. I was thinking what a trivial thing to fight about when the fists began to fly along with a shattered pair of spectacles! My trip had not begun and I was in the midst of a mess already! The custodian at the station arrived to break up the scrimmage; beads of nervous perspiration trickled down his jaw as he approached the brawl. A gleam of fear was in his grey-blue eyes as he grabbed at the bulging arm of the big man. Surprisingly, the men ceased the disturbance as quickly as it had begun.

I sat down on the hard, splintered bench to wait and to listen for the arrival of my train. Seated nearby was an age-worn lady, weeping silently through all of the commotion. A picture of a spry-looking, white-haired man, she clutched in her hand. Her husband, I assumed, had passed away, leaving her to grieve. I scooted down the bench, being careful not to snag my best skirt. I placed my hands on the sobbing lady and she looked up at me. Wrinkles, deep crevices etched in her face, brightened as I shyly smiled at her. Her spectacles, dampened with grief-filled tears, slid down the bridge of her turned-up nose. She pulled out a lace tatted handkerchief, wiped her nose, and dried her eyes. I wondered and hoped that my young, life-filled face and touch had eased her suffering. She smiled.

Outside, the train station emptied as the people flowed out to board the arriving train. In such a short time, I had experienced both the anxious, hectic reaches of life and the quiet, unspoken word of death. As I boarded the train, I wondered if life was so simple and quick-changing that it could be experienced in such a short time. My thoughts on the matter closed as did the doors of the train. I had places to go, things to do; and I had learned that life is not terribly long.