Railway memories

07/03/1995

Dear diary,

today I would like to talk to you about how precious memories are and how they are never in vain. Edith Arbour has always been a girl who cherished moments. She liked to remember past events as precious memories; for example, she loved to collect objects related to specific events.

Furthermore, no one could separate her from her old camera. She believed that every little thought of everyone was precious, because in a certain sense it reflected their personality, and gave a glimpse of some of the nuances of their mind.

She never threw away things she no longer needed, but stored them in one of her “memory boxes”, tin boxes where she kept all her little treasures, such as buttons, letters, and stamps. She had always loved the tranquility of rural areas. She loved walking through the wheat fields, and she liked walking through the woods to reach the clearing she had discovered as a child.

When I was little, I looked at Edith with eyes full of admiration. She was older than me, and I saw her as big and brave. I accompanied her on all her adventures, every exploration of the areas around home.

Every time she took out her “box of memories” to show me her treasures, I was thrilled. She was keen to tell me what memory was associated with each object.

When we were little, we often took the train. Near the hill and after a few houses belonging to the few neighbors, there was an old railway. There wasn't much to see, just an iron track and a small ticket office. Edith and I would set off early in the morning to get to the station, and we would ask the ticket office clerk for two return tickets to the city. With a kind smile, he would take our coins and give us our tickets in exchange. That train only ran twice a day, once at eight in the morning and once at six in the evening. There was only one train arriving. The train was a steam locomotive, black on the outside, looking almost gloomy and scary. But once you got used to it, it felt more welcoming. As soon as it stopped, the conductor opened the doors and we got on. The train had bright emerald green seats and shiny maple wood tables. Above each seat were candlesticks that produced a faint light.

During each trip, we discovered another secret of the train. For example, one day we found tickets hidden between the seat cushions. They were messages that two lovers exchanged, and we enjoyed reading them. When we arrived at the city station, everything was different. There were people everywhere, all crowding to make room or get on. So Edith would take my hand and together we would make our way to get off. The city was a place full of adventure, so big that we risked getting lost. The city streets were lined with rows of shops, each one different from the other. We loved chasing each other through the narrow alleys between buildings, and we loved playing hide-and-seek in public gardens. At the end of a day full of games and fun, it was time to go home. So we got back on the train, which was almost empty, as it was heading back to the countryside. The light of the sunset made the journey even more melancholic. We always sat in the same place, where the maple wood table had a cut running through it, dividing it in half. The train was a comfortable and welcoming place for us. Because things changed quickly, but the train didn't; it always arrived on time and returned punctually.

Always there, always running. That train reminded us of the tenacity of those who woke up every morning to go to work despite their fatigue. Every evening, the train stopped at the country station, ready to leave again the next morning, as that was its last stop. Every now and then, at night, we liked to sneak in to listen to the song of the night birds and the sound of the wind blowing against the windows. It was a quiet place at night, perfect for telling each other everything we couldn't say in the light of day. The wooden floor creaked slightly underfoot, and some of the windows didn't close properly. All these little details were special to her.

That train was part of our youth. It had seen us grow up, change, become adults. We had climbed into it sad, happy, and angry. It knew everything we said to each other, it kept safe all our confessions and fears. It was always him who picked us up in the morning to take us to school, always him who took us on our urban adventures, and always him who took us on our first dates. We knew every spot that the sun illuminated, filtered through the glass, and every ring on the tables left by coffee cups. It was our secret diary, our second home, and our refuge. There were always new things to look for. We often talked to the conductor. He was a wise and calm man, of few words, but he listened willingly.

He was fond of us, he felt affection for us. I understood this because he knew we sneaked in, at night, to play inside the carriage, but he never scolded us, and he knew that objects were being stolen from the lost property box, on the back of the train, but he didn't stop us. That steam locomotive was our best friend, our companion on many adventures. It was a meeting place with friends, a place to spend more time together. For many years of our lives, we got on and off that train so much, so that the conductor, whom we saw grow old as he saw us grow up, recognized us just by the sound our heels made on the stairs as we boarded.

***

Some days ago, years later, I was on the train heading home after a long day in the city. The train was vintage, the same one that had been speeding along those tracks for years. The seats, once a beautiful emerald green, were now faded with age. The table was still the same. Made of maple wood, it had a crack in the middle that divided it perfectly in half. The smells of the indoor remained unchanged. The number "9" painted on the outside of the train had faded, and now only those who had seen it when it was freshly painted would recognize it. The light of the sunset hit our faces, just as it had done long ago. Many years had passed since Edith and I used to go into town to have fun in the narrow streets and steal peonies from the florist. It had been a long time since we were children. Those were happy times, when every day was a challenge to see who could collect the most items for the “memory tin box”. The woman, now in her fifties, sat in front of me, staring out the window. Her hair was starting to turn gray, and the skin on her face was beginning to relax slightly, hinting at the first wrinkles that would become more noticeable a few years later. Her eyes were dull, lacking light. Looking at her, a tear rolled down my cheek, and I tried to wipe it away with a tissue as quickly as possible. But she noticed anyway.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked kindly.

“Don't worry, ma'am, everything's fine,” I replied, trying to sound convincing and smiling slightly.

“Oh, honey, if you're crying, everything can't be fine. Did something happen?” she asked.

"You know, life is difficult at the moment. I've just given birth to my third child. My husband works in the city, but his salary is low and we struggle to make ends meet. I don't work because I have to take care of my older sister, who has Alzheimer's. It's difficult now that our parents are gone, and I'm her only relative who can take care of her. It takes a lot of attention and patience, you know. It's hard, but I try to persevere because I love her," I replied, as a few more tears ran down my cheeks, but I tried to force a smile on my lips.

“That's terrible, dear. I hope you feel better soon. May I ask what she was like before she got sick?” she asked, smiling kindly.

"It sounds strange to say, but she was a girl who liked to remember everything. Everything she found, she kept in tin boxes, every photo she took, she hung on the wall of her bedroom. She was curious, adventurous, and caring. She never wanted to forget anything. Luckily, as a girl, she accumulated so many memories and wrote about every day in her diary, so now I can help her remember through all these testimonies", I replied.

“How wonderful you are, she must be very lucky to have you as a sister. You are a strong woman, you will definitely make it. I'm sure she feels your love and is grateful to you,” she said.

“I hope so...” I replied, but before I could finish my sentence, the train stopped at the country station. So I got up, took my bag and my sweater.

“Come on, big sister, we're here,” I said, offering her my hand to help her up.

Edith looked at me, confused, as if she were searching my face among a thousand thoughts.

Dear diary, I hope you now understand why memories are precious and never futile. Every now and then, I open her lit box and show her the little treasures she herself had collected.

Some days she remembers nothing.

Other days she smiles.

Thank you for listening, my diary.

Caroline Arbour