The F Train runs the course of Manhattan into Brooklyn Heights.
Late one evening, on a Wednesday, she steps onto the south bound train to go home. She takes a window seat, alone at the end of the subway car. Biting her lower lip, she opens a book and begins reading. But not for long.
Distracted, she closes it and removes a pen from her purse. Using the beige paper bookmark, she begins to write.
I picked it up long after the train crossed into Brooklyn. It read:
Did you ever consider that maybe what we’ve got isn’t so bad?
Maybe what we have is more than what we’ve had.
And somehow we manage to sleep at night.
(The free flow of thought is like a magnet catching dust. And sense has a lock that’s covered over with a thin layer flaking red rust. My mind is somewhere behind.)
But what I have is so much more than what I have had.
In and out and up and down, back and forth, underneath some immovable force.
And every once in a while, we pause and stop
And realize what we’ve got:
A piece of ourselves at peace
I flipped the book mark over and the small, crips letters filled that back as well. I kept reading:
Even though it will never be enough.
Here I am
And holding to who I am
I humbly ask you
Who you are and what made you think
We could take it this far —
Without you I would not be me
Nor you without me, would not be you.
But I humbly ask
IF we have taken this too far
IF in this pause
I must bid you farewell
Remembering this, alone,
Until I am old and undone.
Because what we have is more than what I’ve had
To lose it unexpectedly would be horrorific.
Leave me mad.
The woman on the subway became real.
I did not even know her name.
Copyright 2009-2011, by Kimberly Cox, All Rights Reserved
Revision from November 1, 2009