Tracks Part III


© Ceg Richardson

"Ready" didn't exactly mean I booked my train ticket the next day. It did mean I was ready to tackle the reservations I had about meeting with Jean-Marc. I stayed up all night committing every one of those reservations to paper. The next morning, I drove to the post office and sent the letter off to him. It was the first time I allowed him, not me, to decide whether this "weed" was worthy of his love. And I left him with the opportunity to walk away if he was truly convinced there was no rose within. He wasn't. I made the travel arrangements.

He had offered many times to come to New York. But it was important to me that I be the one to go to him. Simply telling myself I was deserving wasn't enough. I needed to actually take action. I needed to overcome more than just my fear of traveling alone to the unknown, I needed to overcome a lifetime of being too afraid to take a chance on me. This huge leap didn't only signify faith in our love, it symbolized faith in myself. I was strong enough to make the trip; I was deserving of the reward at the end of the journey. I think it was the first time in my life I really believed in myself. This was Jean-Marc's greatest gift to me - and would remain so regardless of what would come of our meeting.

We are 90minutes out of Montreal, but an end to the Customs check is nowhere in sight. Thanks to en earlier delay while switching tracks, we are already forty minutes behind schedule. From what I can gather, a passenger's documents are the cause of the extended inspection. My head is pounding. The cafe car is closed while we sit here at the border. I'd sell my luggage for a cup of coffee. Nearly an hour after the agents first boarded, Adirondack #69 chugs back into motion. Mr. White Bread is at it again. His choice of sustenance is less amusing to me now, as it reminds me I haven't eaten since sometime yesterday. I dig through the tote, but can't find the cereal bar I purchased this morning. I do find the bag of combos. I take them and a bottle of water to the reopened cafe car. I could eat them right in my seat, but my neighbor, who was pulled from his slmber by the border patrol, is sporting a fairly unfriendly countenance. Besides, I could stand a change of scenery. I have my little meal at a corner table, and decide this will make a pleasant place to ride out the remaining hour. I wonder if the station at Montreal has notified Jean-Marc that we are behind schedule. I entertain the idea that he has returned ome after mistakenly concluding I've stood him up. Worse, I wonder if there's the chance that he stood me up. I ask myself what I plan to do if he isn't there. I have no Canadian money. I don't speak French. I can't answer my question.

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