Going Home
- Jeremy Fisher
- Jun 2
- 25 min read
Updated: Aug 19
The cabin sways, and a loose panel in the ceiling vibrates like the shivering of a dog who just escaped his bath. The sounds of the train’s wheels make a melodic clacking noise across the tracks until the engineer aggressively activates the brakes, creating a chain-effect of jolting train cars jamming against the hitch of the car in front of them—then bouncing again as the forward momentum returns them to their place in the hook. Did he forget that he would need to stop soon? My irritation is short-lived as the ride smoothens and we’re back to the usual rhythm of a cross-country train ride. Outside the windows, the scenery is nothing out of the ordinary—mostly rural landscapes and trees—occasional towns and humble train stations with a small handful of passengers waiting on aged platforms. But, it doesn’t feel normal, as each departure represents one more step toward home. Unlike previous home returns, this feeling is not the lamenting of a vacation that I didn’t want to end, or that of a longing for my own bed after a lengthy business trip—it is an apprehension about what I will discover when I arrive. I haven’t been home in nine months. Until eight days ago, no one had gone to my home city. Not since the invasion began. Not since it had been swallowed by the invaders and veiled behind a curtain of terror and rumors of what horrors were taking place in the streets I call my home. No one had entered the city—until the Ukrainian military did so by force. The momentum of the train’s forward motion rocks me toward my side as the engineer slows for one last stop before I’ll reach my destination. I continue lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling as I listen to the bustle of the other passengers emptying onto the platform of the Mikolaiv station. The attendant walking down the corridor looks into my cabin and her eyes connect with mine when she sees that I’m not disembarking here. Its a look of sorrow and empathy that meets my anxious gaze — “you are continuing to Kherson?” she double checks her clipboard and repeats the sympathetic look, as she notes my name. Yes, I think to myself, I am … going home …
