Train Car
I met God again. Three times, actually. In a train car.
The first one, a man. Undoubtedly a father, and by his face, probably a grandfather. Annoyed with people not listening to directions—and I laughed. Told him not to be too annoyed because we all just woke up, even him. Then we laughed together. He carried my bags and made sure to keep checking on me throughout my trip.
The next, a woman. The conductor. Told me that I could sit in the seats reserved for the handicapped because she believed I was. When I assured her I wasn’t and how I shouldn’t take up a seat, she said, “Girl, those long legs won’t make it on your trip in any other seat.” Then she shot me a web, and I caught it. We are Spider-Man together. I’d never felt more seen.
Then, the lady in the cafe car. I came for a coffee, but I also needed wine. She didn’t ask for my ID because she’s a “good judge of character,” but I had already pulled it out. Habit. She looked at it, looked at me, and before she could even say anything, I said, “Yes ma’am, I know.” I spent way too much time in that cafe car, talking about marriage, and kids, and if I’m officially “auntie” age—which was declared by everyone in the cafe car, yes, strangers that weren’t officially part of the conversation—I’m not (despite being an actual aunt).
I’m so full. I’ll be full for weeks.
And I don’t really know what else to say, other than:
I hope my parents know that even when I’m not with them, in their sight, or on the other end of the phone, there are people looking out for me. The good kind.
And everyone that I shared a moment with today, I hope their kids know that when they aren’t with their parents, there are other people’s children filling that role—even if for just a train ride.
In lieu of paid subscriptions:
For now, my work is not paywalled. I’m leaning fully into storytelling and less into growth and metrics. However, if you feel so led, you can fuel my already hyperactive episodes with caffeine.