Bellingham

After they arrived at the train station in the middle of nowhere, getting off of the bus was an awful drag. It was sluggish, slow, and the fleeting flocks of people turned into deep, hurling crowds. They looked near freshly evicted with their amount of luggage, and it took nearly five minutes to fully wake up Oliver when the ride came close to an end. Elias wondered greatly how a boy, or a man, so young could take so long to wake up. When Elias was a young man, he hardly slept, or so he recalls. He’d spend his days in the local jazz club and his nights under the sheets with a flashlight and a long novel or a textbook. He’d always believed he should fill himself with the greatest knowledge and education that his parents could not have or afford. And then he’d pass that knowledge to his son.

He could also acknowledge and empathize with the grief that wallows in his son’s mind, as he had experienced before. But despite that, he didn’t know how to help him, what he needed, though trying everything he could. He surrounded him with his love, then with people. He saved money to let his son try therapy for a month instead of buying a new computer he needed for work. He made his favorite meals. Let him try new ones. He asked himself, “What did I do to help myself move on?” He tried to apply whatever he did for himself to his son in hopes of helping him heal. His son shook his head often and ducked back into his sheets. He told his father, “I am not you. We don’t heal the same. We can’t process the same things in the same ways.”

Then he wondered how many years it had taken. Then he wondered if he had anyone else by his side.

After his wife passed away almost twenty years ago, Elias was left with their child, his son, to take care of alone. He came home to an empty house with an infant in his arms and a funeral to help plan for. His heart was sick. His body mourned. He held tears behind his eyes when mixing the baby formula and setting him down in the cradle. He had remembered the songs they would sing to their son, the clothes they would dress him in, which days they would rotate driving him to school, whom he would give his first words to. Some nights, he wasn’t sure he would make it much longer.

Five minutes before they arrived, Elias shook his son’s shoulder after packing his books and newspapers. He began with a gentle nudge, then a firmer touch. The young man groaned awake, eyes jarring from sleep. He pressed and rubbed on them; he observed his surroundings as if he’d never been on a bus before. “We’re here,” Elias said. “Wrap up your music and pack up whatever you took outta your bag.” After he said that, Elias wondered if his son had smoked before they left. But he didn’t bother to ask.

The two men boarded the train. Elias purchased both tickets and handed them to the conductor, who greeted them with a warm, toothy smile. The train was much more spacious than the bus, with face-to-face booths and a small table between. Elias could fit more luggage, thank goodness. The table had a small daffodil in a glass vase on top. Attendants took orders from passengers on small notepads and poured orange juice and black tea. The man’s son had fallen asleep again with his headphones halfway on his ears and his Walkman set beside him. This time, however, he stayed awake for some of the ride before his eyes grew tired of chasing road signs. He stayed awake long enough for his father to start a conversation between them.

“So you’re excited?”

“For?”

“Your new school.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What are you studying again?”

“Journalism, Dad.”

His son did not make much eye contact between words. He often ran his fingers through his headphone wires or pulled at the bottom of his shirt. Then he began chasing road signs with his eyes again. Elias watched as he did. He wondered if he should speak each time his son’s eyelids fell. And he wondered all the way to Bellingham.