There was always something about trains that made me feel safe. I would take it every three weeks from my father’s house in Poughkeepsie to my mother’s apartment in Montreal and the inevitable repetition of power lines and bumps on the track lulled me into a quiet peace where my mind was blank and my eyes could race and follow along.

Usually, it was the other way around. Somehow I was always thinking about something but not bothering to look for anything. My parents would always get frustrated when I was a kid and we would go on vacation to Disney World because the only thing I would be stuck on all day was how the plum colored flowers would taste delicious if they were actually plums. Not much changed after that.

Although I didn’t look forward to visiting my bitter divorced parents taking out each of their midlife crises on their teenager. That wasn’t what made me squirm with excitement as I counted down the seconds until I could leave again. It was single-handedly the one-way train ride.

I loved the way I could pick whatever empty seat I pleased for a new adventure of unavoidable scenery through the smeared and dirty glass. The trees would repeat but the people on the train or in the passing cars on the highway wouldn’t; and I would be pleased with myself when my mind wouldn’t wander to who those people might possibly be past their cars or seats on the train. It helped to enjoy the beauty that people were just people and roadways were just a means to an end.

My problems would disappear the moment my legs hit the seat of the dull leather and my mind would turn off the second my bag would slip onto the floor. Every train ride would be a reverse trip to Wonderland and I was always Alice, following power lines and bumps on the track into the rabbit hole.