As the train rattles through the countryside I look out upon
the fields of green and the purple mountains off in the distance. My mind takes
in the beauty of this ancient feeling place. As the sun prepares to set the sky
shimmers with red, pink, purple and blue. We slowly roll up to a farm in which
an old man, lean yet sturdy, puts down his hoe and rests it against his
shoulder. He looks up at the train and wipes his brow, and from under his hat
you can see a slight reflection of his eyes as they catch the sight of the
train. He raises his hand and starts to wave at the train. My mind begins to
wonder, what is this old man waving at? Am I the only one who sees this? Is he
waving at me?
His hand
moves slowly back and forth as if he sees someone he knows. Perhaps a child on
the train waving at him, or maybe a loved one who will be getting off at the
next stop. Maybe danger lies ahead and like a grim reaper he is bidding us
farewell from this plane of existence, or maybe just me. The old man continues
to wave expressionless as the train rolls by. Perhaps he waves at all the
trains. Like a child seeing a train, running next to it waving at the conductor,
hoping for a whistle. Has this man lived here his whole life? Digging in the
field, waving at passing trains. His old eyes have seen much, seen many passing
trains, some with people on it, some with cargo. Does he wave at the trains
with no one on them, or does he hope for someone to see him and wave back, to
remember him. Is he alone? When war saw this land he was a young man. Did he
fight? Did he hide? Did he lose his family?
I open my
eyes and look out the window to the fields of green and purple mountains in the
far distance. I look for the waving old man but cannot find him. Was I asleep
and dreaming? It felt so real. Perhaps he was a figment of my imagination. As
the train rounds the bend I look out and see the old man standing there, but
this time he is not waving he just stares, holding the hoe staring at the
train, staring at me.
