Train Whistles

I am pulled from a sleep with no dreams by a sound that woke me many other nights of my 19 years. I don't open my eyes. I feel the familiar room surrounding me. My books overflow their shelves; my books that hold a code that might unravel my thoughts because it was from their pages that such thinking leaked, one idea from this writer, another idea from that one. The books, however, are closed, still. I sense the presence of the beautiful desk. A birthday surprise when I was a teenager. It is magical, literally. It is all covered with papers from school, unfinished projects and more books, but I pull the rolling cover down and my room looks tidy again. The wardrobe bears down on the room, a haunting mass of darkness. Too big to belong, I try to disguise its bulk with posters and a hand drawn world map. In the darkness, these coverings further distort the giant, multiplying the ghostly shadows and random spots of light. I sleep with my face toward the wall to keep these images out of my dreams. The presence of the room has sound, too; the low hiss of the air vent above my head. The air moves my hair as I lie with my eyes closed. It tickles my neck. I twitch because it feels like a spider. I will dream about spiders again tonight, big ones that won't die. Sounds produce memories. The growling furnace outside my door reminds me of playful fear. I try, sometimes, to scare my siblings. They screech. We all laugh. Dad pounds on the cealing from above us. He yells at us to go to bed, but later, he'll hide in behind the furnace and make me scream. He'll laugh more than I do. My sister, on the bed below me, snores loudly. I think, momentarily, about smothering her. She smells, too. Like a young teenager, she smells, the way they do before they master the art of deoderant and clean clothes. I love her. I hate having her in my bedroom. The train whistle blows again. It's later than usual. It's beautiful. Sounds bring back memories. An old memory seduces me back to slumber. The rising sun greets me as I sit on a porch. The backyared in front of me is not large. The fence at the end of it is. I hear the whistle and come to the porch. I count the train cars. They don't have trains like this at home, I think. I am too young to know that trains are everywhere, not just at Great-grandma's house in Canada. One last time, the train whistle blows from some distant track ouside my window. The brief dream disappears, leaving only the blackness of the back of my eyelids. I can feel the winter cold finding cracks in the seal of the window frame. I pull my blankets back on top of me. They fall off when I sleep. I must not hold still while I sleep. I open my eye for just a moment, accidentally, really. The wall in front of my face is white, but it is not mine. The familiar presence flees. It is replaced by college books, bills, rent checks, car and health insurance, food plans, jobs and budgeting. I am abandoned in this place that feels and sounds like my room. Real home is not far away, but far enough. Even now, when I'm half asleep, I forget that train whistles blow everywhere, not just at home.