Cliff Scott

Our Destined Nations

His body is rocking steadily back and forth, a smooth comfortable motion that calms him. One that makes him certain that he is alright. He is yet unborn, his eyes unopened, but he can hear his mother’s voice, muffled and distant, soothingly telling him that he is soon to arrive and oh how excited everyone is to meet him. But no, he is not unborn, but dozing in a crib. His eyes are still unopened, but someone is there, hand on the wood railing of the crib, steadily rocking it back and forth to make sure that he stays comfortably asleep. And there is a voice. It's telling him that the loud crashes and booms he hears are the sounds of cars on the street and the cacophony of thunder. If that’s true, why does it sound like it’s coming from the kitchen? And where is Dad? But no, he isn’t in a crib. He is a child in a car seat. The buckles fastening it in place are only loosely attached, ensuring that every turn of the car shifts him slightly in place. He is half-asleep, tired from having been pulled from his bed in the middle of the night by someone. His mother? Yes, it was her, but she hadn’t explained why or where they were going. Where was Dad? Dad wasn’t coming. If Dad wasn’t coming, then who is driving? Dad always did the driving. Mom is probably driving. He doesn’t open his eyes to look. He is very sleepy and the shifting of the car seat lulls him deeper into his sleep. But no, he isn’t in a car seat. He’s on a school bus, his head against the window vibrating with each bump, his body shifting with each crack and twist in the road. His eyes are closed to tune out the world around him although he can hear the others whispering. Isn’t he the new kid? The one whose dad got sent upstate? Yeah, he’s the one. But no, he isn’t on a school bus. He’s on a plane, and he’s much older, heading off to college on the other side of the country. His eyes are still closed but he can feel the turbulence bouncing him ever so slightly in his cushioned seat. He must remember to call his mom when he lands. But no, he isn’t on a plane. He’s on the subway, eyes closed and resting between stops, as the gentle turns of the car rock him from side to side. He is older again, graduated and employed, but he hasn’t spoken to his mother in some time. He really must remember to call. But no, he isn’t on the subway. He’s on another plane, and he is going home for the first time in many years. To see his mom? Yes, that must be why. His eyes are closed when the turbulence picks up, and he hears the telltale ding of the “fasten seatbelt” sign, and the plane begins to descend. Are they really landing so soon? No, that can’t be right. But no, he isn’t on a plane. How could he have ever thought so? He is on a train. Definitely on a train. And the train is heading… The train is heading…