The Train to Nipissing
by Lynn Tremblay
The ticket agent promptly points his pen,
“Gate twenty-three.” I scoop my change. He bumps
my hand. I’m in the way. The Northland train’s
line lengthens. Not much time. A ramp. Some stairs.
The tracks. A suntanned hand hauls up my case.
A screech. A lurch. Then Union, Union blinks
and disappears. The morning sunlight glares
and flashes billboards. Bridges, condos crowd
my window, on the train to Nipissing.
Toronto’s skyline lags behind. Soon trees
outreach horizon lines. The golden birch
and crimson maple flame against the cool
blue spruce and emerald cedar. Rolling wheels
ride winding rails through ancient woods, forgot-
ten trails. We slow, then pause. “Relax,” I hear
the porter say. The train crawls back to our
last stop. Two sheepish faces disembark,
with strained apologetic shrugs. The por-
ter passes down their bags. Powassan bound,
the train resumes its trek to Nipissing.
Lynn Tremblay was raised in Mississauga, Ontario, where she still resides. Tremblay graduated from the University of Toronto in June of 2010, with an Honours degree in English Literature and a Minor in Professional Writing.
