Signals

The rhythm of the tracks keeps time with my thoughts. Outside, small towns flicker by like distant memories. A woman across the compartment hasn't looked up from her book in hours. I wonder what story holds her so completely while the world slides past the window. The border crossing comes at dawn.

Delay after delay. My life measured out in airport coffee cups. The departures board keeps changing, but I remain. I've started noticing others like me—we recognize each other with subtle nods. The transient tribe. Suspended between destinations. I've forgotten what time zone my body believes in.

The radio only picks up one station now. Playing songs I half-remember from someone else's youth. The gas station clerk said the next town is 200 miles. I don't think he's been there himself. The stars out here are violent with clarity. If I stand perfectly still in the darkness, I can hear the earth turning.

The fog is so thick I can't see the water we're crossing. Faith in navigation instruments. The low horn sounds every few minutes, vibrating through the hull. A child across the deck keeps asking her mother if we're there yet. None of us know where "there" is anymore. The coffee tastes of salt.