WILDLY QUIET
WILDLY QUIET
BY JOHN TUFT
I got on the train in Philadelphia heading west across the continent. I was at loose ends and decided to take the scenic route to see America up close. I found my seat and settled in for a three-day adventure. In the first three hours I ate most of my snacks. After looking out the window for a while, I decided to explore the seat pocket in front of me. I found the usual safety instructions and a magazine. I noticed the corner of a white envelope sticking out of the magazine. Curious, I pulled it out. There was no address, but I could feel a sheet of paper within. I withdrew it and found the following:
Wildly Quiet
Like lightning leading a storm
Cutting through silent clouds
Following the invisible wind
I am wildly quiet in the embrace of your love.
annie
I was puzzled, to say the least. Who was annie, and why use the e e cummings style signature? Intrigued by both the subject of ‘wildly quiet’ and her name, I thought for a while before picking up my pen and writing a reply. “Annie, I found your poem. Are you still wildly quiet? I am intrigued. John” I folded up the paper and returned it to the envelope. About then it was time for dinner in the dining car, and I knew their chocolate cake was not to be missed. My dinner companions were a delightful old couple traveling to Denver to see their grandchildren, in particular one who was about to graduate from high school. The company and. the chocolate cake were delightful and for a while I forgot about my musings about what to do next in my life.
I found my way back to my seat and watched out the window as the sun went down. What does one do when they are 70 years old and your body has been beat to hell and back and you have open ground in front of you? The retreating sun betrayed the horizon without answering my thoughts. I idly looked at the magazine still nestled in the seat pocket. The white envelope stuck up out of the pages, different that the way I’d left it. I pulled it out and took out the paper again. To my amazement there was new writing beneath mine.
Like the darkness of a moonless night
Where shadows creep around in awe
Toward a candle in a distant window
I am wildly quiet in the flame of your love.
annie
What sorcery was this, I wondered. I looked around the car, seeking someone who looked like an annie. I stopped the conductor on his way through and asked if someone else was also using my seat. He looked at me curiously, shook his head, and went on about his business. Flummoxed, I pulled out my trusty pen. “annie, please show yourself. I am intrigued by your poem. The love you speak of is the love I wish to find myself. John.” Shortly thereafter the conductor informed me that my berth was ready and I let the movement of the train rock me down the passageway to my bed. I slept fitfully, with dreams of wild oceans and stormy skies.
In the morning, I ate breakfast with the same couple. They had made this journey before and regaled me with tales of their encounters. Cross country train travelers are a hearty lot. They made me promise to let them know if I needed any help figuring out how to make my journey. I told them where my seat is located on the train. They exchanged a peculiar look. “That’s annie’s seat,” they said in unison. My mouth dropped open. “Who’s annie?” The woman replied, “She was a woman, about 56 maybe, who rode this train the first time it ran. Outside of Pittsburgh the train derailed. It killed annie. Folks say that she’s still on the train, looking for her lost lover.” I excused myself, and being a good Presbyterian, returned to my assigned seat. With trembling hands I pulled out the magazine, opened the envelope and looked.
Like the muffled prayer in an empty church
Beseeching the invisible to take some note
My soul longing to be seen
I am wildly quiet in the sacred of your love.
annie
I took out my pen and responded. “Your words touch my heart, annie, even my soul. I want this wild quiet you speak of so eloquently. Can we continue to speak to each other this way? I find that even an inkling of what you mean is worth knowing. I will sit here. I will wait. I will join you in your wild quiet, forevermore. john.” So, the next time you hear the mournful wailing of a train whistle in the night, spare a passing thought for those of us waiting, wildly quiet…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
