Winter lay down fat in its white robe as if to die. The war was over, and he ached to get home after years of service in foreign parts. The villagers kept cramming his mouth with sausages and boiled cabbage and the grime of their fingers. They had made him their own. The leave-taking took forever, but even forever must end sometime.
At dawn, the cart was loaded with his things, and the driver shouted at the horse. Everybody followed to the station, and he struggled with the saltwater that rimmed his eyelids now. Shawls and gloves had been knitted for him by ruddy old women. Somebody made him a satchel. They all made such noise you would think it was a wedding. His friends carried him, sang songs of return. The children flew about like confused swallows, shrieking parodies of the same dirges, hoping for a treat or a coin. His own children had grown up awaiting his return. Yes, it was time.
The carriage clattered down the scree and the path that had been cut atop the steep dyke. Hairs in nostrils felt like copper wires. The horse snorted clouds like a train. They all looked and still could not see the station for the fog.
The train was coming. It appeared, neighed, squealed, and stopped, but, with its own nervous snorts, seemed eager to set out again. There were hasty kisses, laughter, promises.
Come back! they said.
Someone pushed a cloth wrapped around a loaf of bread into his hands, and it was still warm.
Lake, mountain, valley, he knew none of it. Truly, clouds had spun and dropped their cloak across the world. No home in sight for days.
One night came a yellow station light, and it grew, and his heart leaped as the train neighed, squealed, and slowed to a lurch, and stopped. He jumped to his feet, but then saw it was the village station again. All his friends were there, still merry, welcoming him, sending him off.
Stay in your seat, they said, you only have a minute before the train departs. What’s going on? he shouted through the glass.
Eh, said one in answer.
What?
Are you hungry?
By now, the train was too loud and the pistons in swing.
Snow melted and drained. The train kept coming back to the village. All his friends were always there, always happy, always saying goodbye, as if for the first time.
Do you know what’s going on, he asked his friends. Why am I here? Why are you here?
Why are we here? said one, as if insulted.
Dear friend, said another.
Things are here, and things are there, said a third.
Did you just say goodbye to me? And how many times?
What?
How do I get home? he asked.
Home? said one. We will see you soon enough, no?
This is just how it was going to be.
Previously published in The Moth (2015).