Hiding tears from the train

It is inauguration time and the metros are elbow to elbow with the seasoned "smart card" traveler and tourist alike. For whatever reason, the metros tend to be a somber place-a quiet respite where I plug in and tune out. Stop to stop, I spend the time traversing previous conversations, previous experiences and before long, I've dug a mental ditch similar to the forts Craig and my siblings would dig as refuge from the demands of ordinary life.

Tonight, as I stood closer to two strangers than I'd ever care to be, I closed my eyes in remembrance. I wondered what Mom and Craig would think of this historic inauguration, and whether they would have made the trip with the masses to view it first hand. Craig, probably. My mom, probably not. They were so close to witnessing history. People speak of this moment in history and it hits on that deeper level like plucking the "G" string on the violin. To me, it's that jarring "E", as well--that unmistakable high pitched squeal of a string that goes no further, despite its testimony that it could. And, it's the mournful rooster's morning call.

This is Mom and Craig to me, and this weekend is a reminder of them. I wish they could be here; I wish they could be among the millions of others witnessing history, as close as they were. I wish they were a part of the metro crowd bustling home from a busted night.

Instead, I stood not feet from a man with his double pierced earrings and a sweat-stream that started first from a hidden source under his scull cap and traced down his forehead to his sideburns. I thought of Craig's "Frankenveins" he'd get near his temples after a hard workout. The other night, after a hard cry missing him, I too had Frankenveins, and I couldn't help but laugh despite the sadness.

I stood not feet from a woman's faux turquoise bracelet, encapsulated in faux gold. I thought of Mom and her penchant for turquoise. She'd almost always come home with a gem from Santa Fe or any other location she traveled. I could see her wrist, what her hand might look like holding the bar. Her hair smoky grey and  wind-kissed from a full day. Craig standing next to her, helping to keep her steady when the metro stopped. We'd stare at each other and I'd say "not yet", indicating which stop we were. If only...

I closed my eyes to stop the tears for these unbaked dreams.

And yet, it wasn't the first time I hid tears from the train.

~E