Querencia

TRAIN TO PARIS

9:45 a.m
March, 2023

The train rattled steadily beneath me, the faint vibrations running through the worn leather seat. Outside, the European countryside was still waking up from the long winter— fields stretched out in a palette of grey and brown, dotted with the occasional tree stubbornly holding onto the last of its bare branches. The air was sharp and crisp, and the sky above a sheet of clouds threatening rain.

I shifted in my seat, watching the cold light filter through the windows, when the stranger across from me caught my eye. He sat with a small book in his hands, the cover worn, its edges soft with use. He seemed engrossed in his book when the bickering of an old couple in a language he did not recognize caught his attention. The boy, who was sitting beside them, after seemingly getting enough of it, moved to the open seat next to me. The riotous party soon got up and moved to another train car, yet the boy sat in his new seat with his book. Poetry. From this new angle I could make out the title— an anthology of poems in French, though the spine was cracked enough that I couldn't make out the name of the poet.

He was absorbed, his eyes following the lines with slow, deliberate focus, as if each word was something to be carefully considered. There was something about the quiet way he turned the pages that made me feel like I was intruding on a private moment, as if the book in his hand was a small refuge from the cold March day outside.

The boy looked about my age, with tawny golden hair that just fell over his forehead, which was currently creased in concentration. His eyes were downcast to his book, but they appeared to be a deep blue color, which reminded me of a storm across an ocean.

Tempestuous and variable.
Cold and relentless.

His eyes fixed me in the best ways, bringing me further into its trance, causing me to dive deeper and deeper into the unknown.

Before he could notice me staring, I decided to say something.

Splash.

"Do you have any idea what they were arguing about?" At this, the stranger glanced up and offered a small, apologetic smile.

"No, sorry, I don't speak German."

"Ah, that's too bad, whatever it was, it sounded interesting." I could not tell by the boy's answer if he was interested in talking more. I certainly was curious about him but would not push. I decided instead to relax back in my seat, but before long, the boy spoke up again.

"Have you heard that as couples get older, they lose their ability to hear each other?" The boy was now leaning forward as if he was already actively interested in whatever I would say. Before I got a chance to speak however, the boy spoke again.

"Supposedly, men lose their ability to hear high-pitched sounds, and women lose their hearing in the low end. I guess they sort of nullify each other." I was now mirroring the boy, with my body turned towards him and my book of Shakespearen plays long forgotten. There was a bit of amusement behind the boy's shy smile as he related this fact.

"I suppose that is nature's way of allowing couples to grow old together without killing each other." At this, I earned the first (hopefully not the last) genuine laugh from the stranger. His entire face lit up even though I did not grasp what was so funny, besides the irony of what I said.

"Grow together." The boy let out a deep sigh, as if contemplating the right words to convey what was on his mind. "The concept of growing old and into love is so much more intriguing than falling in love, don't you think? It's like, on all our good days and bad days, I will choose to love you. I will learn with you, I will live my life with you and we will grow into and with each other through the passage of time." His ocean eyes lit up as he continued, as if he was waiting for the right opportunity to spill those words.