Going Home

by Eric Lawson

He sat under the eaves of the station, avoiding the stinging pellets that were pelting the platform, sending others waiting just as he was running, coming to join him in the relative comfort of the worn benches. These benches had been temporarily inhabited many times, by lovers and mothers, fugitives and nuns, all with the same goal, waiting to flee into the warm arms of distant cities. Some on paths of discovery, others just wishing to be next to the home fire.

As the faces of the other soon-to-be passengers approached, he stood, yielding his seat to whoever might be interested. Reaching into a coat pocket, he retrieved a box of matches, small in the hands of a grown man. He slid open the box, grabbed a match and struck it, waiting just a moment while he stared in quiet awe of the newly-born flame, now caressing the tobacco.

Staring out towards the tracks through a screen of vaporous ash, be began to stride confidently and was met with pain in his face and hands as the hail came rushing down towards its own destiny.

As he moved his left foot forward knowing that it would not be touching the concrete, but rather the gravel and rail below, he did not think twice. Faces under the eaves behind harbored agape mouths and looks of confusion. Their train had arrived.

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