337.
It’s the number of miles from New York to Virginia. It’s approximately 3 two-hour movies or a season and a half of Insecure. It can also be calculated as three and a half episodes of The Read, depending on if Kid Fury goes too deep in Hot Topics.
It’s 6 hours of my time that I have to dedicate to you. Funny.
337 feels like the number of calls I was too busy to take. If only I’d listened and come when they first called me. What if I hadn’t waited? Would things have been better?
Watching the fields go from green to a coarse yellow because of the blazing sun as Faith Evans serenades me with the upbeat yet somber melodies of “You Used to Love Me,” I think about the good times. I think about the laughs, sitting in your tooted-up Ford pickup, listening to what I now know is Sam Cooke, your favorite. I think about the K-Swiss and Air Maxes that would appear on the porch every two weeks because your friend “worked” on a truck and gave you a deal. I think about the smothered chicken and rice you’d pack up every Sunday you came to visit.
337 miles to dream about the life I wish we had. To imagine you there dancing with me at my wedding and giving me advice that only someone with your experience could provide. I mean, you didn’t get your rough hands from picking daisies. We ran out of time, and now these thoughts bully me. I turn off the music that has ironically switched to “So Good” by Destiny’s Child, the original 4, when Beyonce sounded like she still ate shrimp and grits. It’s hard to feel the rhythm when we are so out of ours.
Being on the train usually isn’t this bad. Yes, you have your characters. The white woman who clutches her bag every time the young boy goes to the bathroom like we all aren’t on a train and obviously don’t have the money to make better transportation choices. The man with colorful layers of clothes, gray locs, and a bag of knick-knacks. Usually, I glance and go on about my business. But today is different.
Today, the presence of these side characters screams at me like a drill. You know, the one you hear when you get a cavity packed. One woman, in particular, grabs my attention. She is wearing Keds, khaki pants, and one of those peasant tops seen in the Chadwicks catalog. Decorated with prominent purple veins, her neck also sports an Alex and Ani necklace. Very southern white woman. I know she’s headed to Virginia; she looks like every teacher I’ve ever known. I watch her wondering why she had to take this trip.
My stare reaches her face. She isn’t happy. In fact, she isn’t really giving anything. Her face is blank, like she doesn’t have the strength to muster an emotion. I notice she keeps folding her lips as if she is trying to self-soothe. She won’t look straight, but not out of fear. Her body reacts to the feeling of movement, but her eyes can’t be displaced from the window as if the answer to all her problems is out there. What is she looking at?
My thoughts are interrupted by the conductor, “Next stop, Wilmington, Delaware.”
Only 217 miles to go.
But these 217 miles aren’t as bittersweet.
Maybe it was inspired by my ears’ introduction to “U Don’t Know Me’ by T.I. when I place my AirPods back in, or the fact that my snacks have dwindled down to the stale pack of Cheetos I threw in the bag once I got the call, but I’m angry. I should’ve prepared for this, you know. It’s hard to be empathetic about anything when it comes to you for too long. Everything has always been your fault.
It’s your fault that I have to take this trip. Your fault I cried in front of those people at work. When you know, I’ll have to work twice as hard to build that barrier back up. It’s just like you to make me falter.
Your fault I don’t talk about you. Your fault I can only smile when people share their experiences and nod as I understand. I have my own history of events. And that’s your fault.
Some are filled with joy and smiles, but most are saturated with fear and anxiety. Did you know that? Did you know my heart beat faster when I saw you coming down the street? Do you kn-
“Next Stop, Baltimore, Maryland”
I take a deep breath, and for this time in the last four hours, I look at myself. I’m wearing an oversized college tee with grungy sweatpants that should only be allowed at home. My hair is in a bun of knotless braids that should’ve been taken out last week, but time got away from me. Time. My eyes are puffy, and I haven’t slept in days. I’m a shell of myself. In a funny twist of fate, I look like the woman staring out the window. Thanks for that. I laugh bitterly.
I stare at the back of the leather Amtrak seat, almost like I’m expecting it to come alive as the furniture did on the shows I used to watch on Playhouse Disney, and suck me into a different world. A world that doesn’t involve these 337 miles. A world where you did everything I needed you to do and then some. I probably look crazy.
Needing a distraction, I open my work laptop and am bombarded with slack messages that range from “Are you okay?!” to “Here if you need me,” and copious heart emojis. Black, of course, because sending a Black woman, a normal red heart isn’t progressive enough.
I begin to work, which triggers my status to “Active .” Catnip for performative white people after seeing Black women emote.
“Things can get hard here, but we are always amazed at everything you do. Stick with it! 🖤”
Are you fucking serious? I shut the MacBook and my eyes. If it wasn’t enough for me to be attacked by my feelings for you, now these people get to create their own idea of what happened. Is this payback for the time I didn’t make?
It feels like someone is pressing against my chest. Breathe. My eyes begin to water, but I don’t want to be the Black girl crying on the train. That won’t be my story. So, I bring my knees to my chest and hug myself. To an unknowing eye, I’m just a woman getting comfortable in her train seat.
“Next Stop, Washington, D.C. Union Station. We’ll be there for a minute to switch engines and crew.”
I replay my conversations with myself over the last few hours, and it exhausts me. Finally, tired of thinking, I decide to rest.
When I awake, there are only three people in this train car: Me, the white window woman, and a young Black guy. I can feel that we are in Virginia.
It’s ironic that initially, 337 miles made me frustrated, but now I wish I could start them over. I wish I could turn this remaining hour into ten. Because I know “Next stop, Staples Mill” makes this moment real. Being reminiscent and pissed is one thing. Sadness is another. Sadness is earth-shattering. Sadness feels unfixable. Sadness is an ellipsis.
Sadness makes the time I took off work bereavement, and it makes us a thing of the past.
My shuffle has turned to “What Am I Gonna Do” by Tyrese, my narcissistic favorite. This song makes me think about when I played make-believe music videos. You know, dreaming that I’ll premiere my video on 106 & Park, with an accompanied Access Granted episode, because all the best videos got them. Of course, never told you that. I never got to tell you a lot of things, huh.
I mumble the chorus to myself and sway.
My singing came from you. I remember you signing to me in your truck, practicing for another failed attempt to bring your sinning self to church. I always sat in awe whenever I got the chance to actually really look at you. Your smile pristine, with a gold tooth for flair. Your neck adorned with a gold chain. Skin so black it felt deep. Black and gold, which is ironic given the organization you pledged your life to.
You still meant a lot to me, even when I didn’t think you felt the same. To have so much disconnect, I did a lot to make you proud. I hope you were.
I’m left to my own devices for the last part of my trek. No moments to wonder, no white women to analyze, no anger to sift through, nothing to self-critique, and both my work phone and computer have a low battery.
Just me and the real things that await me once this train stops. The real conversations and questions. The real hugs and that real casket that will hold you taking your forever rest.
I fold my lips like the white woman before, place my eyes on the window, and look into the coarse yellow fields, planting my eyes there for something.
337.
The number of miles I took on the Northeast Regional to lay eyes on you one last time.
“Next stop, Staples Mill.”
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