Early morning sun bounces off craggy canyons, making mist at the feet of mountains as the train chugs around curvaceous bends, vistas alternately enveloping and opening wide. I’m on my first solo train trip, with a literal rock in tow. It’s a birthday gift commissioned for a friend. The pregnant metaphor of hauling earth across the States isn’t completely lost on me, though I have yet to recognize its fullness.
The stone made itself known straight away, its dense presence ruling out all but two tee shirts and some workout clothes. Bowing upward to give my lover a kiss, I nearly toppled. Strangely, the weight has seemed less ominous since then. Even through a late night delay in an all but deserted station, the task of keeping an eye on all my ‘precious’ technology is more onerous. I only hope that the multitudinous swaddling protects the painted bits well enough.
I started out with invisible, yet much heavier burdens; worries about relationships, money, the usual. More prominently, whether I can truly get my blind self through three train stations, two layovers and onto the correct bus and two trains. I’ve decided now is not the time to be too proud to ask for help. A kindly woman who is headed in the same direction has promised we will assist each other in making sure we both get there. One bus and one train down, one transfer and one train to go.