Clickety Clack

Clickety clack.  Clickety clack.

That is the sound the train makes as we pull out of the Moscow train station.  Two hundred and eighty miles away from Kursk and my daughter, Elle.

Clickety clack.

My mother is traveling with me and we share a sleeper compartment, our translator tucked away next door.  As the train picks up speed and we watch the lights of Moscow fade in the night sky, there is a sense of surrealness.  After years of waiting, Tomorrow, I will see my daughter for the first time.

Clickety clack.

I don’t sleep much that night on the train.  There are too many emotions and thoughts swirling through my head.  Near dawn, I give up trying to sleep and sit silently with my mother as we watch the miles go by.

Clickety clack.

In the pink rays of morning, I notice a woman along the side of the tracks.  A woman dressed in a faded dress, an apron, and kerchief on her head.  She is holding a scythe in her hand, cutting at the long grass.   In our modern day of instant messaging and cell phones, I wonder if I am seeing things.  The woman looks as if she has come out of the pages of a Russian history book.  Isn’t this still the 20th century?  Did I miss something?

Clickety clack.

I turn to look at my mother.  “Did you see that?  Did you see that woman?”  My mother saw her, too.  We wonder about her life and her family.  We wonder how old she is, her wizened face making it hard to tell.

Clickety clack.

The train starts to slow as we arrive in Kursk.  My heart speeds up as I get one step closer to seeing Elle.  My mother and I gather our things; talking so fast in our excitement we hardly make sense.  We greet our translator with a smile.  As we step off the train, the bright morning sunshine greets us back.

Our facilitator meets us at the train station.  We will stay in his home and he and his wife will drive us where we need to go.  Besides my court date, there will be time to spend with Elle in the orphanage and time to purchase souvenirs.

This first trip to Kursk will last a couple of days, and then I will have to fly back home.  As the trip comes to a close, my mother and I gather our things together and pack our bags.  Our facilitator drives us back to the train stain to catch the night train back to Moscow.

I will be back in a week.  The time spent away with Elle will be spent shopping and preparing for her to come home.  I try not to think about the time.  If I do, I will cry.  As we pull away from the station, I don’t think of increasing distance between Elle and I.  I think of the minutes closer I become to being her mother.

Clickety clack.  Clickety clack.

Photo Credit.

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