It’s the ride of a lifetime—

that’s what they said when we boarded.

We didn’t know they really meant it.

We were too young to understand.

 

The conductors is vague

about what happens when one disembarks.

Do you go to a better place? I’d like to hope so.

No-one can say for certain.

 

As the train rumbles on, wheels

clack-clacking on the rails, some of us

scrutinize our tickets to see what destination

they’re good for. The lettering remains fuzzy.

 

Listening to the soft chatter all around,

you understand two things. One: Nobody

rides forever. Two: Your end station,

whatever it is, is getting closer by the day.

 

After a time, if you are fortunate,

you might be joined by grandchildren.

Great-nieces and great-nephews, too.

I look at mine, sometimes, and realize

 

they’ll still be on the train when I’m gone.

Their faces are tranquil. Their dreams

have yet to take shape. It’s all ahead

of them. I ponder all the advice

 

I could offer about how to ride the train.

But is there one best way?

Some believe there is.

I’m not so sure.

 

What wonders await their generation?

Will the train take them to Mars one day?

To Ursa Major? I try not to resent

all the stations they’ll get to see

 

and I will not. Still, my ride is mine alone,

and theirs is theirs. I try follow the advice

I’d give them. Cherish the journey.

Accept that everything must pass.

 

And, most importantly,

prepare yourself, so you can

surrender your ticket,

when it’s time, with grace.