Cain's Children

I met the priest, miles from anywhere, at an old train station in middle England. There was a postcard quality to the dreary, colourless scene. A handful of grey people waited at the platform; their heavy coats black like the cast iron columns; their expressions blank like the hiemal sky. I had to scale a dun stairway to get there, pulling 90kg up in suitcases and backpacks. I dropped everything as soon as I reached the top - he nearly lost his foot.
“Sorry, Father, sir!”
“That’s okay,” he said, stepped back, and smiled. He was about my height (which is painless for ‘short’). He was rather stout, with wide shoulders and thick limbs. Set on a starched white collar, his flat head was crowned with fixed black hair. “Can’t be easy that: travelling with all o’ those. Going a long way?”
“Going home. Had to empty my room for Christmas break.”
“Ah, yes, of course. You know, I went travelling for two years, a long time ago. I had just finished school. Those were different times - no mobile phones or Internet. Most times my folks didn’t even know if I was alive. I set out with a big heavy bag but it broke. I threw half o’ what was in it away and put the rest in two small bags. I never go anywhere with more than two bags now.”
“The key to happiness is packing light,” I said, fumbling Exupéry’s line.
“Everybody I knew told me not to do it.”
“They did?”
“Indeed they did. Said I’d never be able to settle down, that I’d get itchy feet after that.” I knew the itch all too well.
“Did you?”
“Nonsense! I lived the adventure, saw the sights, and took it all out o’ my system - hardly left home since.”
My train pulled into the station. “Pleasure meeting you, Father.”
“Likewise. We’ll meet again,” he said as I jumped on. “Until then!”
I believe the priest: if I wander enough, maybe one day I won’t need to any more. The desire for a cure fuels my disease. I have searched in five continents for his El Dorado, where the Grail waits. Haven’t found it yet but I keep looking, packing light.