In Aberdeen the air is crisp and clear. The city is grey and all over you are informed that you are in Europe’s oil capital. Obviously that’s a thing to know. Maybe the city council expects that someday black fountains break through the pavement and so you have to be better well advised just in case. T. is the same tall, good-looking man he has always been and probably always will be. He works off-shore, do you remember he says, of course I do, but that’s so many years ago now, but T. insist that he never paid the favor back. Never mind. Good it is, to sit with T. and the conversation drips from his wife’s MA course to his mother health, my sisters holidays and the by-election in Rochester to the massive amount of huge, big-brand cars, passing by along the window of the coffee shop, you’re a big man now T. say I and T grins. The train is nearly empty, the ticket collector sits on an empty chair and flicks through the news. So far up north I think, so far up north. Dundee flies by and in Montrose the tide is low. The boats look like cracked up shells in the wet sand. In Edinburgh I bite on my knuckles, but anyway its better than crying in a now packed train. But that’s something to learn as well that the mere sight of a sign at the station hurts so deep. In Newcastle the houses look out over the bay and few empty factories with broken windows would have their own story to tell. And further south heads the train, along woods, full of dark, brushy stands next to harvested fields, a farmhouse where only a few stones are left and afar more and more wind wheels are to be seen. Windmiller is long a  profession as so many other professions exist and noting remains more of the old world of Chekov and Bulgakov, no witch rides in the deep dark nights over the countryside, and a black cat is nothing more than a black cat and never will be a fast-talking Behemoth, and we drive further and further, stop here and then, I change the train in York and soon the countryside is left behind itself, the great city comes into sight, noise isolation walls border the path, more and more passengers join till the train reaches London King’s Cross.  I look for my sister, there she is and as soon as my fingertips reach her arm, I start crying and cry as I would have liked to do in the last 8 hours and 20 minutes, the time of my journey cross-country.

2 thoughts on “Cross-country

  1. I loved this line: The boats look like cracked up shells in the wet sand. And I really like the way you allude to something and trust your reader sto try to figure it out rather than spelling everything out for them, as I’m prone to do.

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