The Train to Nowhere

The train let out another howl as it chugged past the plain scenery of the Midwest. A ghost of another time, it brazenly shrieked into the stillness of the night. It was romantic in a way, this outdated mode of transportation. With every whistle it seemed to be its last, panicked scream. Tears filled my eyes as I stared into the darkness, occasionally blinded by stoplights, which harshly reminded me of the appropriate era.
It felt right somehow, crying on a train. It seemed to be epic, as if I had just left the love of life at the station, only waving out the window as he runs beside it. I secretly hoped I had something that trite to shed tears over. Only hours before I had sat in a high school gymnasium watching my younger brother in The Mouse That Roared. I had come in on a train at 7:30 in the morning and was on the outbound by midnight. He was marvelous, a riot I dare say. He had always been the funny one, making scrapes less painful and scars heal faster. I am not sure when he grew up, but I suppose it happened shortly after I did. It hurt me to leave him, just as much as the first time.
He seemed sure of himself in front of everyone, bold and vulnerable. He didn’t seem worried about the reaction of the crowd, because somehow he knew they would laugh. We have always had unspoken conversations, my brother and I. All that needs to be said is said, with or without dialogue. He never had to tell me he was sorry. He would simply come up to me, eyes lowered, and hug me. He never had to tell me he was scared. He would come into my room in the middle of the night and we would watch infomercials until he fell asleep. He never had to tell me he loved me. He would simply be there with me, every day. Now that I have left for college, we cannot manifest these things without words. I cannot let him know it’s all going to be alright because I cannot brush his hair from his eyes. I cannot tell him I worry for him because I cannot give him the “don’t you dare or I will take your very life” eye glance. I cannot tell him I love him because I am not there every day.
We are strangers now, and are not sure how to move from this place of awkward introduction. I have become this ghost to him, all too comparable to the train that takes me home. I swept into his life tonight, screaming to be closer while speeding on past him. I could picture him there on the platform, the wind from my passing only enough to move the hair from his eyes for an instant. For a pathetic second he knew it would be alright.
We have to begin again. We have to know what it is to be adults and siblings, which are the most polar of opposites. We have to love enough to say the words; be bold and vulnerable with each other as we are with the audiences in our lives.
The train chugs to a stop as pillars of smoke billow into the cold morning air. As I search the sea of unfamiliar faces I pull out my phone and text: You were great tonight buddy, I love you. It may not be dialogue, but it’s certainly a start.