The Station

My eyes are drawn to the octogenarian sitting alone upon a bench in silence, while the world moves around him. There is a serenity emanating from within, surrounding him in a halo. I am mesmerized but have no idea why.

People hustle in every direction on the platform, hopping off trains as they arrive. I watch as individuals rush into loved ones arms while others with tear-stained cheeks, stare at nothing. Feeling like a child dropped off at summer camp, I stand lost. To say I feel a willing participant is like saying I am the frightened bull tossed into an arena full of screaming voices, desperately wanting to leave, yet knowing this is where I need to be.

My feet move, until I find myself by the old man. Who smiles and pats the seat next to him.

“Your first time?” He asks.

I nod. “Is it always this crowded?”

“No, there are times when it’s peaceful. Who are you here to see?”

I find myself saying. “My son. He is returning home from overseas.”

Staring into my eyes he glances at the crushed envelope gripped with in my fingers. Placing an elderly hand upon my shoulder. “Are you proud of him?”

The question shocks me. Before I can answer, his face lights up, a smile of pure joy creases his wrinkled face, and he looks young once more. I follow his gaze. Stepping off the train is a handsome young man in his prime. Dressed in military garb of yester year.

In a motion, spry for his age he runs and embraces the young soldier. My breathing becomes sporadic, my lip quivers with emotion upon this vision of pure love. My eyes refuse to give them privacy, so drawn am I to this display of open affection. Together they approach me with smiles like that of a child on his birthday.

“This is my son, Richard.”

I stand, shake his hand. “Thank you for your service. I’m waiting for my son, David. He is returning from his final tour in Iraq.”

Richards puzzled face turns into an understanding look, as he replies. “He will be anxious to see you.”

With that they turn and walk away, arms around each other, like a proud father and son should.

Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows or the way the light glared from the setting sun. Yet with each step they took, the young man began fading away. Until the old man stood alone. From his posture I sensed his anguish, felt his despair. Turning towards me, he nods, not in farewell but in a way that say’s, until next time.

I knew he meant we would meet again on this platform. How many years has he been returning?

Glancing upon the letter addressed to me. ‘Care of the department of defense.’

In a fog I hear my son‘s voice, and suddenly I understand. Instantly my soul bursts with love and overwhelming sorrow.

Yes, I am proud of him.