Every holiday, I take the same train home. Even though I live in a tiny town, the Amtrak stops 12 minutes away from my house. I know all the stops along the way: New London, Mystic, Westerley, Kingston, Providence. Something is a bit different every time—the snow is fresher, more trees have fallen, the glass on the street lamps is a bit foggier—but it’s still the same place, the same route.

When I say that I’m from Connecticut, I’m often confronted with the fact that, to many, my home is just a space in between. It’s nothing more than a bridge between New York and Providence—a hellscape of traffic with nothing to look at. 

I watch the signs change on the train platform. I put headphones on. I wait for Bluetooth to connect. I wait for the train to come. I wait for the doors to open. I stare out the window and watch houses pass by. I’m between spaces that are between spaces that are between spaces. Everywhere is hardly anywhere. Everywhere is somewhere.

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On the train home during spring of my freshman year, I listened to “to Perth, before the border closes” by Julia Jacklin. I didn’t notice her Australian accent through the thickness of her words.

“Everything changes, everything changes / Everything is changing, everything is changing”

Everything was changing, but the route was the same. The people on the train are always different, but they are always there. It’s always hard to find a seat, and I always end up sitting next to a person who, like me, is hardly anyone. Someone who is someone. I feel grounded in unfamiliarity.

I recognize the bridge connecting New London and Mystic. I know that the big white cylinders are wind turbines being assembled. I know that there was a crash on the bridge early last year, that someone with a flat tire pulled over and an oil tanker crashed into the side, that the oil tanker driver didn’t survive, that the flat-tire driver did, that burning oil dripped down from the bridge onto the houses down below. I don’t think other people on the train read Connecticut news. On the way back to Providence, the farther I get from home, the less familiar it all feels. I recognize a few landmarks and rivers, but there’s a house I’ve never noticed. I pass a Tesla dealership, and I don’t know where I am.

Everything moves fast, but the train always moves slower than I think it does. 

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On the train home during fall of my sophomore year, I listened to “The Sorcerer” by Twain. I don’t talk to my brothers much—we grew up pretty distant and never had a reason to get closer—but most of my communication with one of them consists purely of music recommendations and last-minute reminders of birthdays and anniversaries. Messages that used to include hard rock music have recently included softer albums: Buck Meek’s Two Saviors, Daniel Rossen’s Silent Hour / Golden Mile, and Twain’s Rare Feeling.

Sitting next to a stranger and staring at a vaguely familiar scene, I listen to Twain’s soft and intimate music. The bass glugs along and two guitars melt into each other. Mat Davidson’s tender voice echoes slowly. I hear the lyrics like I’ve known them my whole life.

“Every minute I spend with you is like eternity / So why should I get jealous about your boyfriends? / The second I close my eyes, they'll be gone / The second I close my eyes, they'll be gone”

I don’t know much about my brother’s life. That fact has never bothered me, but I wonder what it means that he shows me softer music these days. We don’t talk any more than we ever have, but our relationship feels softer. He tells me things he thinks are beautiful. He asks me what inspires me. On a phone call (potentially the only call we’ve ever made just to catch up), we awkwardly exchange I-love-yous. It’s all unfamiliar. Going home for Thanksgiving feels softer. The ride home feels softer.

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On the train home during spring of my sophomore year, I listened to “catbite” by kid at the corner. In a space between lines, strings pluck, and new parts fade in and out. Around the seven-minute mark, the song peaks as the singer repeats:

“Our table is a mattress / Our backs against the door / Our table has no napkins / Our table is the floor”

I think of the homes I’ve built for myself: the triple I lived in with two close friends and a cat that grew to trust me, a Steinert practice room, the Underground, a SciLi study room. All familiar places that are always changing. People come in and out; decorations go up and come down. We write on whiteboards and erase it. I eat at different tables, even if the table is the floor of my friend’s room or a mattress. Every table is a home. Every home is a home for now. Eventually, I will never go to any of these places again.

When I go back to my hometown, the popcorn I always buy is a bit more expensive, I have new coworkers, and a new spider has made its own home above my bed. Yet, the same corner of the kitchen is still unpainted. My mom still drinks the same coffee and eats the same chocolate. My dad still roots for the same teams. I still don’t know what teams they are. We eat dinner at the same table we’ve had since I was six. We still eat in the same seating arrangement.

Things push and pull, they change and stay the same, they stop and start. Spaces in between become homes and then become unfamiliar again. In a way, the train seems like home. My shoulders always hurt by the time I get to Westerley. It always stops and starts at seemingly random intervals. It’s always in between the same stops. There, I’m hardly anyone, I’m hardly anywhere. Even so, I’m someone, somewhere.