Tracks (Part I)
Today my life will change. I've waited a year for this day. I've carefully weighed every option, envisioned every possible scenario, made every arrangement, sorted each detail. I've sought the advice and guidance of those who have gone before me and waited for every last indication to point me in the right direction. I have waited to be "sure." So, now it's 7:30 in the morning and I'm standing in the middle of a crowded train station, waiting for the P.A. syatem to direct me - waiting for the muffled, crackling announcement to call me to the track my life's course is about to take. The face of my Amtrak ticket reads: Arrives at Montreal, PQ, 5:30 PM, but it may as well read: Destination Unknown. Sure, chances are I'll arrive in Montreal as scheduled, but what is to come once I step off of the train onto that Canadian platform is not so sure. There is only one certainty on this day otherwise brimming with uncertainty. Today my life will change.
I have a suitcase and leather totebag, both borrowed. This is my first journey via train, my first journey out of the country, and the first time travel has required any luggage other than a simple backpack. My sister is here to guide me through another of today's firsts - my first time at Penn Station. She has been waiting with me for nearly an hour. I know she would like to leave, she has a subway ride and an eight hour day of work yet to conquer. I don't tell her to go. I've never traveled alone before, and I'm frightened. I want to cling until the final second to my last link to the familiar. I want to buy her a ticket and drag her along with my carry-ons. I want, at the very least, for my sister to board the train and help her five foot tall sibling reach and secure those carry-ons into the overhead, and then secure said sibling into her seat. I want to be tucked in and told there are no monsters under the seat, no monstrosities ahead. She won't help me aboard; only pasengers will be permitted to descend the escalator to track #15.
I say good-bye, she wishes me luck. When I pass through the doors, I don't look back. I would rather she doesn't see my tears. I want her to believe I am brave and assured (I want me to believe I am brave and assured). I'm afraid, too, that I will look back to see she has already gone, that all that is waiting for me should I decide to run back is a big, empty space.
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