Fifty-five years ago, I boarded a train that would take me away from home. Backpack slung over my shoulder, suitcase trundling behind, I was off to university. Now it was time to return.
Taking a window seat, I watched the countryside slip by. Quickly becoming a blur, it reminded me of the speed reading technique I had adopted while scanning academic articles on theoretical physics. One came to mind where the author professed time travel to be possible. I showed him. My eloquent math equations put such nonsense to rest.
I must have dozed off, for the jolt of the train stopping work me from my nap. The sign announced I was at my destination. Hurriedly, I gather my backpack and suitcase. Exiting the carriage, I was surprised to find how little had changed. Hurriedly, I made my way to the exit.
A cab drew into the forecourt. The driver, having stopped, wound down his window. “Homesick already?” was the question. “It’s only been a week.”
“A week,” I exclaimed. “Is this some kind of joke? Wait a minute. Is that you, Jack? You’ve hardly aged a day.”
“Neither have you, boy. Hop in and I’ll take you home.”
