The train to Grandpa's funeral

A ticket bought online is dispensed by a machine
that, unlike the teller
is not separated from me by a sheet of glass
I board the train with a suitcase
weighing the sum of three loads of laundry and a canned coffee

Once on board seats stair at me
which hold riders who refuse to look back
A conductor passes by.
and I hand him everything he will ever need to know about me
on a unsigned piece of paper
watching as he hands it back with little interest

My name and I stair at each other momentarily
A girl my age is searching for a seat
I move my bag to silently offer her one of the few left unfilled
on this lonely train
which she refuses by pretending not to notice

my bag reclaims the empty seat next to me
I put on my headphones
to help me in the game of hiding don’t speak
The train disappears behind Jack Johnson
I text my sister. “Leaving Eugene. In Portland at eight
Talk to you then”
I look out my window as a world of sheep blurs by

where people are only talked to when not traveling to a funeral
and those who try to break down our silent walls
are the greatest offenders
of life not lived alone