These Tracks

Today is April 31. A common wish of mankind is wanting more time than we are given, time that doesn’t even exist. But what about when you continue to have time that you don’t even want? I sit in the same spot I have kept returning to since my last ‘April 31.’ Every day for a year, and nothing has seemed to change. I grip my steering wheel until my knuckles are whiter than the dandelions that line the tracks. I sit, waiting, hearing the faintest disturbance in the distance.

My hand strays, only for a moment, from the wheel to the initial around my neck. His initial. I still remember the day he gave it to me, it all comes back with the simple touch of a fingertip, a time so long ago. The last time in my life when there simply wasn't enough of it in existence.

We are in a new city, just him and I. We decide to go out for an afternoon adventure since we rarely ever have a moment to ourselves. I knew this when I met him, that he was someone important and different; however everyone else knew this, too. He has a special gift of music he shares with the world, and because of his talent and fame others were always stopping him for a picture, an autograph, and always he obliged. It never bothered me, and I was honored to take the photo or provide the pen.

This city has a strip mall that we happen to stumble upon, and as we pass by a small boutique, I spot a single initial adorned with sparkling diamonds hanging delicately from a gold chain. It is the most beautiful necklace I have ever seen. I come to a sudden halt, infatuated by the beautiful treasure I see in the window. I turn to him and with a smile lead him into the store for a closer look.

My finger brushes the letter, just as I do now. I know we can’t afford it, but a girl can dream, right? Besides, I have my arm wrapped around the most wonderful person whom I get to call my own, and everything pales in comparison to that. I still believe there were no two people more perfect for each other.

It’s all too soon when we leave the store and go on our way. But a little while later, he comes to me with a small package that has been carefully wrapped. Inside is the necklace, and it somehow looks even more immaculate as the rays of the sun reflect tiny rainbows around us. He deftly clasps it behind my neck, and I throw my arms around his. I swore then I would never let him go.

But shortly thereafter, he let me go. Suddenly and unexpectedly, and just like that my whole world shattered. There is no way to explain the devastation of doing everything you can and still never living up to the love and adoration that fame brings. What he apparently doesn’t know, though I don’t know how he couldn’t, is that I would have always done more for him. I was ready to give up my whole life to join him in his. I want to go back to that time, but I haven’t figured out how to reverse the clock yet.

My fingers return to their death grip on my steering wheel, hot tears burning my eyes and my cheeks as they leave streaks in their wake. This is the only way others will ever know what he has done to me. This is the only end I can picture that even begins to come close to representing what I am going through on the inside. The worst part of all this is that he doesn’t even know what he has done to me, the heartbreak he has caused. When he left me, a part of me died. After that horrific phone call, I crumbled to the ground in a state of mortal anguish. As I cried for weeks without the relief of sleep, he carried on as though nothing ever happened. For me, time has stopped, despite the fact that the dates on my calendar continue to get crossed off. I guess somehow I am still alive, or so I have been told. And that simply won’t do.

He is alive every night on that stage while I am dead knowing I will never be his special girl in the crowd. It is so frustrating that the world won’t just stop for one moment and acknowledge my wish to pause time; how much more clear do I have to be that I don’t want any more of it! Every second that passes by is a second that he is farther and farther away from me.

I begin to feel the rumble in my feet just as the blare of a horn reaches my ears. It’s coming. I straighten in my seat, feeling the wind in my hair as it flies in through my open windows and out again just as quickly as it came. This seems to be a perpetual theme in my life, any pleasantry leaving before its time. But for the brief moment that the breeze pays me mind, I let it engulf me, encompassing me in a sweet hug that feels as if the earth herself is bidding me farewell.

I bring my mind back to the present. It’s almost here, a hurdling approach. I want to put my hand on the shifter, my foot on the gas, and creep up to the tracks. But I am frozen. If not out of fear, then what? I have never feared this, in fact I have fantasized about it to no end. The first time I came here was out of impulse. My broken heart was so raw that I did not know how I would ever take another breath; those are hard to do when your lungs feel like they are collapsing within you, after all. It had not taken long after that first visit for my grip to leave deep permanent indentions in the leather, constantly reminding me of this place, these tracks.

The thought had first come to me from out of the blue, emerging from a simple question. What if? A sole thought consisting of only two words that has the potential to change everything if I am curious enough. However, the first time that fantasy became an all-to-real reality, I realized that was not how I wanted to go, at least not in that moment. Since then, I have planned meticulously.

I have come back every day after, some days knowing it wasn’t the day and other days taunting death to come and take me. It was only recently that I placed his initial back around my neck; I figured it would be a nice touch for when they find me. There’s no need to write a letter, because I have already filled countless journals with my grief and despair that they are bound to uncover when they investigate. Everything has led up to this moment, but still my hands are glued to the same spot they always are.

My fingers are still in their mold when, in the blink of an eye, death passes by me once more. The thundering roar shakes my being, reaching my very soul; like a wave, it drifts past me in slow motion. My hair encircles my face, framing my eyes and features as though I am in a movie.

I glance down at the dandelions as they break apart and into the air, carried higher and higher by the power and force of the train. By mere inches they are spared, and I send a wish with them as they dance into the wind. I suppose I have a lot in common with those dandelions. After all, I was spared, too. They were so close to a sudden demise, but instead of it being the end it was simply their beginning. Now they are free to go and experience new life.

But even though I was spared this time, and every time before, I am not free. I am still a prisoner, bound by every lie I was ever told about a future that I am still somehow clinging to. I have no desire to go and experience new life, for I want the life I was promised. I want to grow old with him by my side. I want to have our little apartment we always talked about. I want to love him, and have his love in return. That was supposed to be our beginning. Perhaps I don’t have as much in common with those dandelions as I thought. Besides, in the end they left me as well.

The train barrels on and after a while it vanishes as though it was never there at all. I wish time did that for me, but still it passes painstakingly slowly and I am all too aware of it. I am ready for it to end. I am ready to stop crossing dates off my calendar. I am ready to stop fading from his memory while he is still ever present in mine. I am ready to stop having all of this time that I. Don’t. Want. “Oh well,” I say to myself, “perhaps tomorrow will be my last time at these tracks.” It's the same thing I told myself yesterday, however I had not wished on a dandelion then.