lmj2189
Trains always make me feel free. The big windows, the world whizzing past in a blur. You can get up and walk on a train. Go to a creepy bathroom if you so choose. Not like a bus that's designed to confine you next to scary people and keep everyone looking in the same direction, in the same position with little to no reprieve for hours at a time.
I don't remember how it felt to be around her. I don't know what words she said when she was angry or hurt, how she watered plants or if she wore shoes in the house. I don't remember if she was a person who embraced life and clung to it, like water on freshly washed fruit. But I do remember her eyes. Chestnut brown with gold flecks around the irises, eyes that set your mind to thinking about honey and cups of tea leisurely sipped by a fire. Her eyes were like a warm blanket to me, like a teddy bear to a child. They gave me comfort, ease. How much could I have really loved her if that's all I can remember? I should be able to tell you how she smelled in the morning, the bottom barrel tones of her voice when she woke up, how she had a funny way of talking to animals that strayed into our back yard. I should be able to tell you the exact color of her skin because it's etched into my memory like the images everyone sees when they close their eyes after looking at the sun. I should be able to say these things, but all I remember about my mother are the color of her eyes. Every picture I have of her is in black and white, colors that give no hint of the vibrancy that is needed to sustain memories, things that burst forth like new blossoms on cherry trees without notice.
If you don't have a license, you can still be a teacher. Most of my lessons I learned outside of a classroom, away from desks and chalkboards. My teachers were the people on the street, who had sunk so low that the sewers looked down on them.