He Was Not the Only Child on the Train

He was not the only child on the train.

At first, it is easy to imagine him that way—
a boy, six years old, leaving home,
carrying more than he understood.

But the train did not carry just one story.

It gathered them.

From small towns and quiet stations,
children boarded one by one—
some with suitcases,
some with little more than what they wore.

In Union City,
there was a boy my father would later remember as Allen.

I remember him telling me
that as they boarded,
my grandmother gestured to the boy—
a quiet instruction to watch over him.

And he did.

By the time it reached Nashville,
it had begun to feel different.

He remembered waiting there.
Not briefly, but long enough to notice—
long enough for the children to be gathered together,
long enough for the chaperones to pass out apples and sandwiches.

He would later say that children came up from Chattanooga, too.

Whether they joined his train,
or traveled separately,
I still don’t know.

But something changed in Nashville.

What had begun as a departure
was becoming something shared.

And among those children—
among those who had been there since Union City—
was Allen.

He would not remain just a name.

Next: Allen

— Gathering the fragments, one memory at a time…