In Every Season of My Life, the Train was There
“Waiting for spring to come smoking down the tracks”
I and I by Bob Dylan
My whole life rolls out along the tracks.
Five months old, in the arms of a neighbour,
Train blows steam between the wheels,
Conductor calls, “All aboard!”
Mother, father, two sisters, wave from the open train window,
call good-byes to neighbours on the platform.
“You forgot your baby!” the neighbours shout.
I am lifted up and through the window
Into the arms of my crying mother.
Good-bye to Nova Scotia, Bay of Fundy.
Hello to Saskatchewan, wheatfields, blue skies.
My mother tells me
When I was two, I would bury my head in the flower bed
When I heard the train chug and whistle.
Now at the little yellow house in the country,
A four-year- old child,
I stand unafraid by the gate, watch trains pass every day,
CPR letters stand white against maroon cars.
My young imagination,
Filled with questions, asks
Where does the train come from?
Where is it going?
Who are the people sitting by the windows?
Why are they going away?
Can I go away, too?
I wave to the engineer in striped overalls
He waves back.
The whistle blows as it reaches the station. It blows for me, I know.
Then, in the warm afternoon, hand in hand with my mother,
Wearing overalls and my red sweater,
I balance on the rails
Jump from tie to tie
I may pick spring crocuses, she tells me, purple and fuzzy,
But just three, soon glowing in a glass on the kitchen table
Summer
My whole life rolls out along the tracks.
We walk to town, grocery list and money in my mother’s purse.
I wear sandals. Tar melts on the hot wooden ties,
Blackens my soles.
The smell is so strong,
What is it called?
A silver bracelet sparkles on the track,
A token from someone passing.
Why did they leave it behind?
Learning to read, I study words
on the cardboard box on my parents’ wardrobe,
“From Ocean to Ocean
Montreal, Winnipeg, Vancouver.”
And now, at last, the summer I have been dreaming of.
It’s my turn to go.
My whole life rolls out along the tracks.
Train wheels thrumming,
My eight-year-old heart thumping,
My mother reads a book.
“Where is Kitchener?” I ask,
My head resting on my mother’s lap.
“Ontario,” she says.
Rough upholstery brushes my legs,
Peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich
Is washed down by ice-cold water in a paper cone.
Fall
My whole life rolls out along the tracks.
Back to Saskatchewan,
Grade three girl,
New red corduroy skirt and vest for school.
Then, a decade later,
Years going by like boxcars.
A young woman is going east, to university,
Boarding at midnight,
Two of us in an upper berth.
Eating in the dining room,
White linen tablecloths, CPR silver,
Uniformed Black men,
“More butter, Madame?”
Feeling excited but embarrassed,
Montreal and Windsor Station,
Vast rooms, high ceilings,
Old world Canada.
Winter
I recall coyotes howling in the night,
Train whistles call to me.
Loneliness everywhere.
Then the overnight to Toronto,
Very posh,
I tip the conductor like the men do.
And the seasons circle round
My whole life rolls out along the tracks.
A line from east to west, west to east, and east to west again.
Amber Harvey