As an experiment I’m posting a story on my blog.
I flop down in the train compartment, grateful that it’s empty. I am pooped! At 65 I no longer have the energy I need for a morning in the city. I close my eyes.
“Hello. What’s your name?”
Where did he come from? I open one eye a slit. A freckle faced boy of about eight is sitting opposite me.
I sigh. Should I pretend to be asleep? I open my eyes reluctantly. “You can call me Granny.” I don’t know where that comes from. It’s not even technically true. My only grandchild died in a car accident eight years ago when my daughter Helen, her husband, Nick, and baby Sebastian were all killed in a head on collision.
I feel the familiar tightening of my throat.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be travelling on the train by yourself?” Really, some parents these days! Anything can happen on a train.
“My Mom doesn’t know I’m here.” He lowers his voice and gives me a conspiratorial grin.
“Are you running away?” I hope my voice doesn’t betray my agitation. I reach into my bag for my cell phone. I need to send a message.
“No. I just want to visit my Granny. She lives in another place.” He looks out the window wistfully.
I must keep him with me until we get to Irene station. I smile. “Tell me about yourself.” I fold my hands in my lap and give him my full attention. “What do you like doing?”
His blue eyes light up. “I love climbing trees and playing soccer with Dad and helping Mom bake brownies -”
A new voice cuts in. I gasp with recognition. “Sebastian, how many times have I told you not to climb through the windows!”
I hear a window shut. I am alone.