I’m sitting on a train. It is quiet. I sit alone holding a grey book, at one end of an empty car. The world around this miniscule, individual world in which I sit is moving quickly, chugging by, spinning round, wearing us down. Is the train moving, or is the earth? Is time moving, or am I? I’m sitting on a train. It is quiet. I sit alone holding a grey book, at one end of an empty car. An old lady boards. I cannot see her face. She wears black, her face covered by a shawl. She shuffles in, hunched over herself, moving like an umbrella against the wind in the middle of a hurricane. She is full of care. She pushes against this invisible force for minutes, hours, months, years. Time does not ex
Spirited was one word for it—for Mama. For when I’d have to try talking her off of the moon, for when she’d crash back down to bed for weeks
