Returning Home on the Old Tracks

My grandparents held my hands as we boarded a green train, departing from Houston on a 25-hour journey that would sway and rattle all the way to Winnipeg. It was the memory of returning home from my childhood.

The train headed north, and the scenery outside the window gradually shifted—from the gentle warmth of the South to the vast expanses of the North. Everything felt beautiful, even the clamor and chatter in the train car carried a certain tenderness.

Before dawn the next morning, I pressed my forehead against the fogged-up glass, keeping watch over the distant horizon. As the morning light broke, it felt as if the rising sun was there just to welcome us back.

But once I started elementary school, trips back home became fewer and farther between. The direct train quietly ceased service. The railroad faded into a dotted line in memory, and my hometown became a ghostly imprint on an old photo.

It wasn’t until Grandpa passed away last year that my visits home became more frequent. Yet, the journey was no longer the leisurely, comforting return of childhood—it had become a grueling trek. I would leave for the airport before dawn, wait anxiously through lines and baggage checks, then cram into a narrow airplane seat, the turbulence and dry air making the ride all the more exhausting. Airports felt like mazes, endlessly looping, and even after landing, there were still hours of driving left. By the time I arrived home, night had already fallen. There was no time or space to enjoy the view along the way—not that there was much to see through the airplane window, aside from endless clouds.

This year, I heard that the long-discontinued train was back in service. A wave of indescribable excitement surged in me. A month ago, I finally stepped aboard that long-dreamed-of train once again.

As night fell, the train slowly pulled out of the station. The familiar regional dialects mingled with the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks, blending into a nostalgic melody. Lying in the berth, I felt the train’s gentle swaying—it was like being rocked in the tender cradle of Mother Earth.

But the car was more crowded than I remembered, no longer as spacious.

By chance, in the bunk below ours, an elderly couple was traveling with their grandson. They were on the exact same route. The bunks were narrow to begin with, and in order to let the child sleep more comfortably, the grandfather curled himself up at the foot of the bed.

After lights-out, the boy would quietly lift a corner of the curtain, peeking out at the fleeting scenery with wide-eyed wonder.

The attendants pushed carts down the aisle, hawking snacks and souvenirs. Most of the young people ignored them completely, so they turned their focus to the elderly passengers. No matter how persuasive or tempting the sales pitch, that grandfather was unmoved—until the attendant casually mentioned that the item was something kids liked to eat. Without hesitation, he reached for his wallet. And just like that, a seemingly pointless sale was completed with complete willingness.

Watching this scene unfold, memories of my own childhood train rides came flooding back.

Did my grandparents once buy things they didn’t need, just because I might like them?

Did they, too, shrink themselves into uncomfortable corners of the bed just so I could sleep better?

Did I also once lift the curtain, quietly marveling at the changing world outside the window?

Time has blurred the details, but in my mind, I sketch them back into place.

When the train finally pulled into my hometown, and I saw Grandma again, all the longing I had stored up over the years surged like a tidal wave. I couldn’t hold back the tears.