The canned public address announcement is far too loud and the professional speaker's voice, while rich, is wrong for the region and for most of his listeners. He handles "Birmingham" and "Montgomery" well enough, but "Mobile" comes out "Mobil" in his uninformed Walter Cronkite accent.

The Amtrak people evidently do not object. Until the tape wears out, he'll mispronounce the destination of two southbound trains daily.

By the time I reach track level you've already boarded and are seated in the sepia-lit car. From the platform, I locate your window readily enough. Our eyes meet, but I can't hear what you're saying. A squalling infant, being jostled impatiently by his mother, is visible in the seat just forward of yours, but not even that sound penetrates to the outside. Other voices — the milling crowd all around me, that damned PA announcer — are all too audible.

I watch helplessly as you struggle with the ancient window that refuses to succumb to your determined tugging. Finally you stop trying, your face registering an exhaustion and defeat for which a mere jammed window cannot account.

Now the train jerks and shudders as if preparing to depart, but it's a false alarm only. Inside, you compose yourself and turn to peer out at me again, your face close to the dirty window. Your expression now has become somber — resigned. The baby's crying continues, but you don't appear to hear it any more than I do.

On impulse, I move to board your car for a final goodbye, but the thought comes too late. Already, the conductor is closing the outer door. Regaining eye contact, I try to communicate wordlessly the depths of my disappointment; my desperate wish hat somehow this abysmal week, this day, this past hour — might have ended differently.

At last the massive metal monster begins its slow, almost silent leave-taking. No words have been exchanged between us. I watch your face — waiting, perhaps, for "I love you" to be shaped by your lips. Anyone can read those words on a lover's lips.

Yours remain motionless, rendering your glassed-in silence all the more profound. The infant's soundless protest continues its apt commentary on the futility of the moment.

My eyes, glazed and locked, follow your progress down the track until long after your image has faded from view. I feel an immense sorrow, but also a curious sense of relief —- a recognition that I've nothing left to lose.

Walking back through the quieting crowd, I realize that it's just as well that we couldn't hear through the glass.

We didn't have the words.