• human moments,  writing

    Human Moments, No. 3

    The Japanese sumac in the yard of the house by the train station is tossing violently, as gusts of rain hit it with the force of a god’s eternal frustration. Across the tracks stands a plastic enclave that provides an illusion of shelter, its yellowed plastic walls holding back the force of the storm, while puddles in the parking lot turn into small, racing rivers.

    A trio of women arrives, emerging from their umbrellas and dark rain coats. They circle together and chat about the normal topics: length of storm, effect on hair, efficacy of their clothing choices. The blonde, her hair carefully curled, her voice shrill, laughs nervously after every comment she makes.

    We press closer and closer to the walls to avoid each other as more people arrive. At last the train comes, honking in an angry whine, hurling itself into the station like the force of the wind. Carefully we board, pulling down our umbrellas and hoods and making new stories with our damp bodies.

  • human moments,  writing

    Human Moments, No. 2

    There is a line around the corner for the world’s smallest Dunkin Donuts. The people in it are 9-5ers quietly engaged in their own world of iPhones and Kindles while they wait their turn for lattes and muffins.

    Across a narrow side walk, a man with long gray dreadlocks sits on a piece of cardboard, resting his head against the faded blue fire hydrant.  A tall, thick man, dressed in khakis and a butt on down shirt for his day in the office, speaks to him, as an iced coffee sweats in his hand.

    “Man,” he says with a deep laugh.  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been as drunk as you are right now.”

    The man on the ground smiles and claps his hands in joy.

  • human moments,  writing

    Human Moments, No. 1

    The waiting room at the   train station is colored somewhere between off-white and taupe, with a east facing window that is letting in weakened sunbeams that streak against the dirty tile floor.  In winter, it is crammed with black-clad commuters that are barely visible under their winter coats, scarves, riding boots and gloves.  Today, the mild summer morning has it is empty, except for a man sitting on one of the wall-side partitioned benches.

    I choose my favorite seat, the one in the corner, farthest from the door, because it is a respectable distance from this stranger.  The train is due in another seven minutes, which gives me four minutes to rest here and enjoy the cool air before I need to make my way to the far end of the platform.  I dig through my big leather bag, past my various technologies and wires and pull out my headphones and plug in.

    When the analog clock on the wall moves to 7:30, I pack up my things and rise.  The man, who I’ve barely noticed, follows my lead, so when I  open the door on to the tracks, I wait for him so that I can hand him the door.  He takes longer than I expect, so I turn and look back into the room.  For the first time, I see that he has beautiful blue eyes and a fine head of silky white hair brushed back from a pleasantly pink face.  He smiles, his eyes lighting up.

    “Thank you!”  He says as he holds his hand out to catch the door.

    “My pleasure,” I say.  And mean it.

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