On my metro commute into work this morning I happened to glance up from my Suduku puzzle and see our train was keeping pace with a Marc commuter train – a real train.
I couldn’t help but stare at the faces in the windows parallel mine. The faces were dead, half asleep, open mouthed snoring, and a few were turned to PDAs or the morning newspaper.
Childhood memories flooded my thoughts of how father took the Marc train to work from the Point of Rocks station, Maryland, every weekday.
I remembered being half asleep in the blue/grey leather back seat of our white Oldsmobile as mom drove dad to the station. She was a stay at home mom. I remember that on many occasions we would arrive just as a train was pulling out and how dad, in his 30-year-old body, would dash, briefcase and sack lunch in hand, to jump in the open door of the moving train so he wouldn’t have to wait an hour for the next and be late to work.
I recall begging mom, after the train left, to let me lay a penny on one of the tracks to be flattened by the next train. And how we would arrive early in the evening so I could search around the tracks for my flattened penny to add to my treasure trove.
I remember the first time dad took me on the train and how important I thought he must be for the conductors to know his name. I remember how proud it made me.
And I realized this morning that even 25 years later, the expressions on the faces of the passengers on the train and even the metro had not changed. They were ever as tired and worn looking. And I wondered to my self this morning, whether I too had become one of those faces.