The train, in its passing, echoes likes throbbing bass tones of a sub-woofer. As the doors between compartments open and close, the rattle and clack of the wheels against the track filters through. After a few hours, the rocking and swaying becomes familiar so that I stir awake in the still silences of the stations. The motion is that of a child being rocked, though not perhaps in a steady cradle. I picture an infant tucked into a sling or onto a mother’s back as she hikes across the country. With every boulder to climb or dip to step down into I am knocked gently against her chest in a way that says, yes, you are still being carried.
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