Between Stations

May 8

What a train ride, a cane, and a cap carry

The field streams from my window seat on Amtrak’s cafe car somewhere between Chicago and Joliet. This is the time to enjoy the journey that began in 2003 with my ambition to earn my MFA in directing and ends with me riding the train across from my mom and aunt to attend my MFA in Writing commencement; commencement is the beginning and ending for me. The ceremonies fill me with joy and end with a look around: Where did everybody scatter? What happens next? I’ve always been nostalgic. I’ve always been sentimental.

I planned the itinerary, booked the Ubers, called the hotel, arranged early check-in, and initiated packing the clothes for our one-day excursion. I don’t often travel with this illness, so, ironically, I’m in charge of this trip when my brother usually manages airport special services, my wheelchair; someone’s always there to ensure I make it from point A to point B. As my mom and aunt follow, I’m in charge of the trip this time. I sound like a dad, “Stick to the schedule, who’s late? The car’s here. Follow me to the elevator. I brought the snacks.”

I use my cane. My legs have shorted out lately, leaving me stumbling to the floor, clutching walls, and generally praying they hold out for this one night. This is one night to walk the stage and accept my diploma.

Practice holding the cane, shaking hands, and accepting the diploma. Watch a YouTube tutorial and practice in the hotel room. Illness makes an appearance, but cannot star in this show.

I wish you could see the green and brown fields as they rush past me so fast; I rush by them so fast. This academic journey took so long, and this moment came so fast.

The emails from students come, and I put on my “Away” message, letting them know I will respond on Monday. “Just do the best you can.” I text my coworker: “I don’t care if they include a picture with every vocabulary word; I just need them to problem solve without me holding their hand.” I won’t be there forever. As you know, my time with them ends in less than a month. My position as a Title I interventionist crumbled, but they don’t need to know that today. Today, they just need to know their teacher is also a student. Aren't we all?

The train is flying, and the joy moves so quickly. Seasons change, but today is my time, and this evening is the best of me.

I see a yellow school bus out of the corner of my eye and smile. I suppose I’m never really that far from myself after all. The rattle of this train reminds me.