Monday, June 2, 2008

Her

On the train I site next to a man. He's in the window seat, but he stares only at the seat in front of him. I have a feeling about this man. He's waiting for something. What I don't know for sure, but his index finger twitches like a trigger finger in the old west. The air on the train is still and recycled. A train worker paces the aisles as a warden to her cells. The train pulls into a stop. Those getting off shuffle slowly. Those getting on stumble over themselves. A woman, who's history you could read in the creases running across her face, cries. She waves, and continues to weep. She cannot be consoled. People pass by her taking a second glance and nothing more. One man smiles at the novelty of someone in the throws of emotion. She waves frantically with one hand as the train leaves and she stays. Her other hand smears the mascara cascading down her cheeks. She knew that morning, when she chose to wear mascara, that she would cry. She knew, but she wanted to look pretty for her daughter. She was so proud of her. Going off to the big city to be someone. A dream she once had. Her daughter, with no credit going to her mother, was smart and ambitious. The mother lowers her hand. She feels a twinge in her joints. Each wince from the pain a clock winding down to inevitability. She cries because she didn't make it. She cries because her daughter did. She cries because she can't find the words to tell her daughter that she's the only thing that means anything. That she is beautiful like the world has never known. That she's smart like her mother has never known. That she is loved like love has never known, and will never know again. She cries because she knows that when her daughter's hands glide across the black and white keys in Carnegie Hall, she will be long gone. She cries because she knows that while the audience givers her daughter a standing ovation, she will say that she wants to thank everyone for coming out, and that she wishes her mother were still alive to see her now. She cries because she loves, beause she dreams, because she wants. She cries because there are simply no words.

1 comment:

Yels said...

Saw this and thought it might give you inspiration for a blog...

I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.
- Umberto Eco