There are Trains in Heaven
"That was the best game we've ever had!"
Ella surveyed the table before them. The dominoes were stacked one on top of the other, forming a bridge across the table. They had run out of room. The dominoes connected to the center marker and spiraled out from it like a small city.
They had been playing Mexican Train. The original rule (that they had made up) was that once you had an engine for your train – marked by the special double characters that only engines had – before connecting it, you had to sing a train song. “I’ve Been Workin’ on the Railroad” had been her dad’s favorite. Hers had been “Midnight Train to Georgia”. There was no singing now, it was enough for her elderly parents to move the pieces across the table, identify which pieces matched with another.
The way Mexican Train works is that each player takes a number of dominoes and stands them on edge so that their faces are visible to the owner but not to the other players. Once you have an engine, you build your train. Her father hadn’t done so well – he had a domino graveyard standing in front of him. He hadn’t yet located his engine by the time the game ended. On his turn he’d rummage through the bone yard, as it was called, looking for an engine. He’d get distracted every now and then, and look for Charlie, their cat. And Ella knew he saw the old table again.
Ella missed the old table, the wooden one covered with cat hair and cobwebs. You could always count on Charlie to curl around your legs, knocking your train over. This table was a beige laminate. If you spilled your coke on it, there would be no stain, no mess, no watermark. It was shiny with sanitation.
Her mother’s eyes were closed now. She had had enough. Ella’s father patted her hand softly with his own, rough and thin with age. His eyes said more than words could. He got up, motioned for the nurse to help with his wife’s wheelchair.
That was the end of that visit. And Ella wondered if there were trains in heaven.
