I Still Look for Bobby
If you live around trains long enough, you start noticing things.
Around here, trains are just part of life. I hear them from my house almost every day. Sometimes it's the whistle in the distance. Sometimes it's the rumble of the tracks. Sometimes it's getting stuck at a railroad crossing while a train seems to take forever to pass.
Years ago, when my mom was still alive, we got caught by the train a lot.
And somewhere along the way, my mom noticed something.
There was always graffiti on the train cars, and for some reason, we kept seeing the name "Bobby."
Not once.
Not twice.
Over and over again.
Every time we'd get stopped by a train, my mom would say, "Let's see how busy Bobby's been."
And then we'd sit there counting.
"Bobby."
"Bobby."
"There's another Bobby."
By the time the train passed, she'd usually shake her head and laugh.
"Boy, Bobby's Been Busy!!"
And we'd both crack up laughing.
Looking back, it sounds silly.
Maybe it was silly.
But it became our thing.
One of those little inside jokes that wouldn't mean much to anybody else but meant something to us.
The funny thing about losing someone you love is that it's often the smallest memories that stay with you.
Not the big holidays.
Not the major events.
Not the things you think you'll remember forever.
Sometimes it's sitting at a railroad crossing counting graffiti on train cars.
Sometimes it's a random phrase nobody else understands.
Sometimes it's a joke you've heard a hundred times.
The other day I saw a post about trains, and immediately I thought about my mom.
Just like that, I was back at those railroad tracks again.
I could hear her voice.
I could hear her laughing.
I could hear her saying, "Let's see how busy Bobby's been."
And for a moment, she didn't feel quite so far away.
That's the thing about the people we love.
They leave pieces of themselves behind in ordinary places.
Songs on the radio.
A favorite meal.
A smell.
A holiday tradition.
A train crossing.
And years later, when we least expect it, those memories find us again.
I don't remember every conversation my mom and I ever had.
I don't remember every day we spent together.
But I still look for Bobby when a train goes by.
And somehow, that makes me smile.
Maybe we all have our own version of Bobby.
A small memory that means nothing to the rest of the world but everything to us because of who shared it with us.
If you're lucky enough to still have that person, hold them close.
And if you've lost them, pay attention.