There are two stories. And I will tell them both.
Story the First:
It's 1:30 in the morning and there's no such thing as comfort. My neck is cricked in ways I never knew possible, and to score a tenably adequate position for one part of the body means to sacrifice it on the unholy altar of ache for another. I'm catching snatches of sleep here and there in between mandatory position changes (I want to make sure my body pains are fairly equally distributed come morning), hoping maybe it'll add up to enough to keep me on my split and sore feet for our first day in Atlanta tomorrow. I look around at the kids and find they are playing the same strategy game in their various seats.
The prediction for the attitudinal weather system moving in tomorrow looks bleak.
I spent a few hours earlier listening to the charming life story of a man who--as he stated at least 17 times (3 times in one sentence, and to at least 3 different people) spent the last 3 days drinking a half gallon of Royal Crown. A half gallon of Royal Crown. A half gallon of Royal Crown! A half gallon of Royal Crown....he's finally fallen asleep, but the guy ahead of us is texting the night away WITH THE SOUND ALL THE WAY UP. He sounds like an old typewriter up there, which I suppose does add a certain je ne sais quoi to the atmosphere in the train, but nevertheless makes me want to do an act of midnight violence on the man.
It's a long night on the southbound train to Atlanta.
Story the Second:
After spending a good hour settling in and playing conductors and pilots and what-does-this-lever-do in their seats, the two youngest kiddos settled into quiet conversation in their little enclave, weaving their shared experience tight into the future. Brotherhood, right there. Pure excitement and adventure is running through their little veins, and I am suddenly aware that they will remember this. Always. And I am grateful for the opportunity to gift them with that ember in their hearts.
I twist and turn and wonder if sleep will come, and it does, unevenly. I wake at 1 in the morning to the awareness that the train rocking along the tracks has managed the impossible lullaby. It's a contented, exhilarating feeling, to come awake and feel my body racing forward through the night, knowing I'm passing through several states in my sleep. A peek at the map says we're nearing Charlotte, and I'm astonished to find we've come so deep into the south; only 3 days ago we passed the Mason-Dixon line casually on our drive back from Gettysburg.
As the train barrels on through the night, I'm suddenly reminded of all those scenes in all the old movies where the big map comes on screen and the plane or train is superimposed over it, making tracks all over on the way to some great adventure or mission, while a dotted line plots the course and an X marks every stop along the route: Shanghai, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Casablanca. For us, the map says Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia; but the feeling is the same. We are making tracks, and fast, as we click along the rails and struggle for sleep and wonder at the adventure that is right here and now.
--teri.
