Goodbye Sir

He left me a letter at the back of the book I was reading. We spent three days together, mostly reading each others books and at times we would join in conversation. He told me about his new job in San Francisco and why he was leaving the country side. To be honest, he didn’t look like a man who would fit in anywhere. He had a country boy smile, but his eyes longed for something more, something meaningful.

Dear Catherine, he used my full name, although we spoke of one another as Kate and no, not Leopold, but Jeff (Jefferson). He wrote the whole letter himself, his handwriting wasn’t the best, so it took me a while to decipher what he wrote.

This was perhaps the best weekend of my life. That was such a cliche, meeting a girl on a train and making small conversation, reading her deepest desires and then just like in the movies give her a sign that you might like her. Anyway, he wrote that he wished he could ride along for a little while longer, but he couldn’t. Other obligations… He ended the letter with perhaps an overused phrase,  Yours truly Jefferson. P.S. I might take you upon that offer. Hope to see you somewhere where fate might grant us another chance.

 

At the station, I waved him goodbye. At that point I haven’t read the letter yet and if I did, I wouldn’t change one thing. For me, he was a companion for the lonesome train ride. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He kissed my cheek, like almost lovers would. I smiled, what else could I do? He climbed off the train, and I waved mouthing the words “Goodbye Sir”. No name, just sir. He was and probably will stay an acquaintance, someone I met briefly on a train to nowhere…

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SPORE

Spore

Geskryf deur Melissa van Eeden

 

Eensaam

staan Spore op die stasie waar hy wag

vir die trein na Johannesburg

waar hy sy drome gaan najaag

hy hoor reeds die begeleiding

van die stadsgedruis waarop hy snags

gaan neurie voordat hy verval in ‘n onderbroke slaap

van ‘n taxi se toet ‘n streekstaal wat mense

in die verbygaan klets die neonligte wat as

tydaanwysing dien vir die nag

 

om die draai kom hy aan gehardloop

die lokomotief wat voort storm

Spore tel sy koffer op, voel-voel

aan sy sak vir die drie klippies

sy glimlag breed getrek op sy armoedige gesig

‘n skreeuende fluit jaag die voëls uit hul neste wat nou swerm in die

blou lug met gesketsde rookwolke soos die lokomotief ‘n laaste

teug neem van die sigaret voordat die sigaretstompie

by die venster uitgesmyt word

die lokomotief skop vas teen die yster

en stop voor Spore

die deure ruk oop

niemand klim uit

Spore gee die man twee klippe voor hy in klim

die laaste klip sal hy gebruik om sy moeder te bel

as hy veilig in Johannesburg bestem