The Train
Ruby Varallo Young Writers Issue | Poetry, Winter 2025
The Woman steps onto the train and waits to find Herself again. As soon as she sits, the man next to her offers a bite of his mayo sandwich. What kind of mayo? she asks. The good stuff, he says. She needs good, so she eats, mouth full of multigrain bread as the man watches. The mayo is good, the kind Herself might like, so she peels the pieces of bread apart and looks to see if She’s in there. Nothing. She shakes her head at the man, and he apologizes, quickly standing to leave at the next stop. With her tongue, she fishes flax seeds from between her teeth and wonders if the pine trees know she has lost Herself. Tell me if you see Her, she writes on a spare napkin, presses it to the window to show them. The leaves closest to the Woman rustle as they whisper her message to the rest of the branches, ridges of rough bark listening carefully. The twigs begin pointing to the train car, but the Woman doesn’t notice, distracted by the reflection of the woman in front of her. She’s painting a portrait with a pencil, smudged irises and gray lips. The Woman leans forward, reaches her hand through the space between seats and taps her shoulder. I like your drawing. The drawing woman does not turn around, but the Woman decides she will watch the drawing woman until she finds Herself again. When the sky darkens, the Woman can no longer make out the portrait’s features, so she imagines them. Her own drawn woman has deep dimples and a laughter that will one day fold the skin from her nose to her mouth, but her drawn woman will not mind—she knows Herself. The Woman does not know that feeling. Hours later when the sun rises, the Woman’s burning eyes squint at the now visible portrait. The drawn woman is looking to her left, with a mole above her eyebrow’s arch—the same spot as the Woman’s—and is smiling a smile that reveals a flax seed between her two front teeth. I like your drawing, the Woman repeats to the seat, as she knows the drawing woman will not turn around. My first self portrait, the drawing woman replies. When the train slows and the drawing woman stands to leave, the Woman doesn’t stop her. Alone in the car, as she has been since the man left, she lets the train keep rolling, pressing her ear to the window to hear if the trees have found Herself yet.
______________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“Last summer, I ventured from Madrid to Cádiz on the most scenic train ride of my life—yet, the inspiration for this poem came before I had even boarded. My family arrived at the station too early, so we spent an hour waiting on the platform, listening to departure announcements and watching clusters of people rush to their assigned tracks. This poem, however, follows a trip with no clear destination, a journey with little certainty for those who choose to embark on it. I don’t see self-discovery as a ride that’ll ever have a final stop, nor should it—attempting to define exactly who we’d like to be often only leads us further from appreciating who we are right now. My own fossil is constantly changing shape, but it holds a steady affinity for the unclear and an unwavering dislike of mayo sandwiches.”
Ruby Varallo is senior creative writing major at her arts high school in Charleston, South Carolina. Her work has been featured in K’in Literary Journal and The Bookends Review, and her forthcoming collection of short stories and poetry will be published in the spring.
The Train
Ruby Varallo | Young Writers Issue | Poetry, Winter 2025
The Woman steps onto the train and waits to find Herself again. As soon as she sits, the
man next to her offers a bite of his mayo sandwich. What kind of mayo? she asks. The good
stuff, he says. She needs good, so she eats, mouth full of multigrain bread as the man
watches. The mayo is good, the kind Herself might like, so she peels the pieces of bread
apart and looks to see if She’s in there. Nothing. She shakes her head at the man, and he
apologizes, quickly standing to leave at the next stop. With her tongue, she fishes flax
seeds from between her teeth and wonders if the pine trees know she has lost Herself. Tell
me if you see Her, she writes on a spare napkin, presses it to the window to show them.
The leaves closest to the Woman rustle as they whisper her message to the rest of the
branches, ridges of rough bark listening carefully. The twigs begin pointing to the train
car, but the Woman doesn’t notice, distracted by the reflection of the woman in front of
her. She’s painting a portrait with a pencil, smudged irises and gray lips. The Woman leans
forward, reaches her hand through the space between seats and taps her shoulder. I like
your drawing. The drawing woman does not turn around, but the Woman decides she will
watch the drawing woman until she finds Herself again. When the sky darkens, the
Woman can no longer make out the portrait’s features, so she imagines them. Her own
drawn woman has deep dimples and a laughter that will one day fold the skin from her
nose to her mouth, but her drawn woman will not mind—she knows Herself. The Woman
does not know that feeling. Hours later when the sun rises, the Woman’s burning eyes
squint at the now visible portrait. The drawn woman is looking to her left, with a mole
above her eyebrow’s arch—the same spot as the Woman’s—and is smiling a smile that
reveals a flax seed between her two front teeth. I like your drawing, the Woman repeats to
the seat, as she knows the drawing woman will not turn around. My first self portrait, the
drawing woman replies. When the train slows and the drawing woman stands to leave, the
Woman doesn’t stop her. Alone in the car, as she has been since the man left, she lets the
train keep rolling, pressing her ear to the window to hear if the trees have found Herself
yet.
________________________________________________________________________
Why is this piece your Trace Fossil?
“Last summer, I ventured from Madrid to Cádiz on the most scenic train ride of my life—yet, the inspiration for this poem came before I had even boarded. My family arrived at the station too early, so we spent an hour waiting on the platform, listening to departure announcements and watching clusters of people rush to their assigned tracks. This poem, however, follows a trip with no clear destination, a journey with little certainty for those who choose to embark on it. I don’t see self-discovery as a ride that’ll ever have a final stop, nor should it—attempting to define exactly who we’d like to be often only leads us further from appreciating who we are right now. My own fossil is constantly changing shape, but it holds a steady affinity for the unclear and an unwavering dislike of mayo sandwiches.”
Ruby Varallo is senior creative writing major at her arts high school in Charleston, South Carolina. Her work has been featured in K’in Literary Journal and The Bookends Review, and her forthcoming collection of short stories and poetry will be published in the spring.