Train Wreck

I’d never seen her before, but as the train approached, I grabbed her hand and held on.

Instinct made me do it. It was the way she stood there on the platform staring down at the tracks.

Did she lose something? No. She never once turned her head. She had what my brother called the ‘thousand-mile stare.’ Something familiar to those who have been to hell and back.

My brother was a veteran of the war in Vietnam. One day, while out on patrol, he fell victim to the backlash of an explosion, and caught some shrapnel in his neck.

He was one of the lucky ones. He survived. Others weren’t so fortunate. It wasn’t until he was convalescing in a hospital in Japan that he noticed the stare in some of his fellow survivors.

Some were cold, hard and bitter. Others were teary-eyed and morose. All looked hopeless. They’d all been through a horror that nestled itself inside their heads and refused to leave.

It’s not that my brother was immune to the ravages of war. It was just that he was somehow able to shake it off when it appeared and go on to lead a somewhat normal life.

But he always knew it was there, and that one day it might take hold of him and not let go.

The young woman I saw on the edge of the platform had that stare. I hadn’t noticed it until after I had grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the edge. That she didn’t flinch or object in any way to my hold, said much.

When the train came to a full stop she eased her hand out of mine and gave me a weary smile.

“Sorry,” she said. “I must have been daydreaming.”

“Are you okay?” I said.

She nodded her head and boarded the train. I never saw her again. But I always look for her and wonder.