Siren of Love

My first memory of being on a train:

I must have been around 7 or 8 years old. I was traveling with my dad (from a place I now can’t seem to remember) back to our hometown of Ankara in Turkey. It was an overnight train with sleeper compartments. Ours had a bunk bed and a washbasin. Simple enough yet more than sufficient to blow my mind at the time.

I was already on a high from the excitement of getting to spend time with my dad (who I often saw only on the weekends). Add to this the buildup of waiting for the train to arrive at its station, surrounded by a piercing cold that could only be minimally managed by holding my dad’s big, warm hand, anxious to hear the siren that resembles too much the sound of a cranky teapot. So, by the time I saw our crisp white pillows, full of promise of a good night’s sleep and an opportunity to play house, I was already living my best life.

Now, as life has a true talent for cutting short joy that seems to linger for too long, I remembered that I had a test at school the very next day on a book I had not yet finished. As I tried to force my eyes to dance around the pages, I could feel their resentment and opposition. I could barely keep them open. The sudden switch in my mood from that of true bliss to fear and worry had drained all of my motivation. I gave in. I cried myself to sleep as my dad held me in his arms.

When I woke up, we were almost back home. School was in a few hours. I searched for the book around my bed but it was no where to be found. My eyes first went to my dad’s bed– which seemed untouched– then to the chair in the corner of the room, where I saw my dad sitting while reading the last few pages of my book.

A few minutes later, he closed the book and looked up at me with a tired smile. He hadn’t slept at all. He gave me a summary of the book from start to finish.

I passed my test.

To this day, I still love trains. I find myself feeling comforted by their sound and movement. There is an elegance and beauty to them not visible to many. You have to be either a romantic or a skilled artist or perhaps a flustered child with a loving dad.