I remember the station.
I went in the morning. The light was gray. The same gray as the snow. The same gray as the sky. The same gray as everything when you are leaving. I had a ticket. Paper. Folded. In my pocket. The edges were soft from my fingers. From the night before. I had held it for a long time. Looking at it. The letters. Warszawa. The name of the city.
The city where I learned to wash dishes. Where I learned to make spring rolls. Where I learned to say "Dziękuję." Where I learned to say "Na zdrowie." Where I learned to say "Bóg zapłać." Where I learned to say "Acasă." Where I learned to say "Jia." Where I met Old Li. Anna. Mariusz. Iryna. Daniel. The priest. The old woman with tomatoes. The shoemaker. The flower seller. The pigeon man. The honey seller. The city where I learned to leave.
I stood on the platform.
The train was not there yet. The tracks were empty. Snow on the rails. White. Clean. Untouched. I thought about the first time I came to Warsaw. Snow falling. Old town colored. Red. Yellow. Blue. I thought it was a fairy tale. It was not a fairy tale. It was a city. A city of people who came and went. A city of people who stayed. A city of people who left. A city of people who could not leave. A city of people who died.
I held my bag. The woven plastic bag. Blue. Faded. The straps were in my hands. The bag was heavy. Full of things. The dictionary. The cloth. The lighter. The postcard. The seeds. The jars. The branch. The envelope. Empty now. The weight of Warsaw was in my hands.
I remember the old man on the platform.
He was there. The same old man. The one from the day I did not take the train. His coat was gray. His hat was gray. His hands were on his cane. The cane was wood. Dark. His fingers were thick. The knuckles were swollen. He was looking at the tracks. The empty tracks. He looked at me.
"You are leaving today," he said. Not a question.
I nodded.
"I came here after the war," he said. "The old war. I was young. Like you. I had nothing. I came here. I stayed. I worked. I lived. I am still here."
He looked at the tracks. The snow was falling. The rails were white.
"You will come back?" he said.
I did not know. I did not know if I would come back to Warsaw. To the station. To the platform. To him.
"Maybe," I said.
He nodded. He looked at me. His eyes were gray. Light gray. Like the sky before snow.
"Then I will be here," he said. "Or I will not. But the station will be here. The tracks will be here. The trains will come and go. You will come back. Or you will not. That is how it is."
He turned away. He walked down the platform. His cane tapped on the stone. Tap. Tap. Tap. I watched him go. He did not look back.
I remember the train.
It came. Metal. Green. The wheels turned. The snow fell from the rails. The whistle blew. The sound was low. Far away. Then loud. Then low again. The doors opened. People got on. People got off. People waited. People left.
I did not move.
I stood on the platform. My bag was in my hand. The snow was on my shoulders. On my hair. On my shoes. I thought about the city. The old town. The colored houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. The cobblestones. The market. The church. The bar. The corner. The post office. The bench. The window. The stall. The basement. The faces. The hands. The words. I thought about Old Li. His cigarettes. His son's photo. His last words. "You have something. Don't waste it." I thought about Anna. Her bread roll. Her kiss. Her eyes curved like a moon. "You will be a cook." I thought about Mariusz. His vodka. His songs. His empty glass. "Na zdrowie." I thought about Iryna. Her letters. Her daughter. "She will be a doctor." I thought about Daniel. His sweater. His postcard. His word. "Acasă." I thought about the priest. His soup. His cloth. His eyes. "Bóg zapłać." I thought about the old woman. Her tomatoes. Her jar. Her hands. "You eat. Good for you." I thought about the shoemaker. His window. His hammer. His new soles. "You pay when you have." I thought about the flower seller. Her bucket. Her roses. Her name. Kasia. "You will remember." I thought about the pigeon man. His bench. His birds. His names. "They do not leave." I thought about the honey seller. His jars. His spoon. his words. "You are like a bee."
I thought about my mother. In Chongqing. Waiting for letters. Waiting for money. Waiting for me to come back. I thought about my sister. Her pen. Her missing tooth. Her laugh. I thought about my father. His noodle stand. His voice. His last words. "Go. Don't look back."
The whistle blew again.
The doors were still open. People were still getting on. I picked up my bag. I walked to the door. I stepped onto the train. The floor was metal. The seats were hard. The windows were gray. I found a seat by the window. I sat down. I put my bag on my lap. The woven plastic bag. Blue. Faded. The straps were in my hands.
I looked out the window. The platform was still there. The snow was falling. The old man was gone. The station was gray. The tracks were white. The city was behind me. I could not see it. But I knew it was there. The old town. The colored houses. Red. Yellow. Blue. The cobblestones. The market. The church. The bar. The corner. The post office. The bench. The window. The stall. The basement. The faces. The hands. The words. The people. The ones who stayed. The ones who left. The ones who died. The ones who remembered.
The whistle blew. The train moved. Slowly. The wheels turned. The metal groaned. The station moved away. The platform moved away. The tracks moved away. The city moved away. Warsaw. The city where I learned to wash dishes. Where I learned to make spring rolls. Where I learned to say "Dziękuję." Where I learned to say "Na zdrowie." Where I learned to say "Bóg zapłać." Where I learned to say "Acasă." Where I learned to say "Jia." Where I met them. Where I left them.
I watched through the window. The snow fell. The tracks were white. The city was gone. The train went on. Into the white. Into the gray. Into the next city. The next country. The next language. The next people. The next farewells.
I put my hand in my pocket. The jar from the old woman was there. The jar from the honey seller was there. The branch from the flower seller was there. The cloth from the priest was there. The lighter from Old Li was there. The postcard from Daniel was there. The seeds from the sunflower were there. The dictionary was in my bag. The words were in my head. The people were in my heart.
I closed my eyes. The train moved. The snow fell. I remembered. I would always remember.