My memory sometimes works in odd ways. I'm sure I'm not unique. To others I often seem to remember the most obscure, insignificant details. I often remember incidences which have nothing to do with me...and yet they do, and yet they don't...but I remember them nevertheless.
I was on the train last week looking at these photos on my phone. A particular variety of tulips newly sprung in my backyard. I picked and planted these bulbs because they were not the traditional kind, at least not to me. They looked more like roses.
They are called Angelique, double late tulips.
The intensity, perfection of their beauty suddenly brought back a memory. A memory at least twenty years old, and no more than five minutes long.
Going to meet some friends, I boarded the #4 train at Grand Central Station in New York. I was only going as far as one stop. The car I entered was relatively empty, and sitting across from me was a woman. If you asked me what she was wearing I'd have to reach far back to remember, and even then I don't know if I could with any certainty. I do recall a brown pouch, with its long strap across her chest. A woman perhaps in her late 30s, early 40s, with short black hair, olive skin and dark brown eyes.
I sat, the train doors closed and within seconds she slipped her hand into the pouch. The sadness crossing her face in that moment was indisputable. She placed an already opened envelope on her lap, and gently pulled a letter from within. I followed her gaze. By the third line, a deeper level of sadness surfaced. She began to sob. She brought her hand to her lips, but could not contain the powerful emotions. So powerful I looked away, embarrassed.
Why was I embarrassed? And for whom? I've received the same reaction from others when I've shown this level emotion. As if there's anything wrong with crying in public...as if there's anything wrong with crying.
Truth is I couldn't stop watching.
With her hand still on her lips, she shook her head. Twice her head fell back, then realigned as she continued to read through now muffled whales. I watched placing my hand on my chest, overtaken by the amount of pain I was witnessing. She managed to fold the letter with one hand, place it on the envelope, and slip them both back into the pouch. Was it the loss of a parent, a child, a lover? I will never know. She held her gaze on the pouch.
I wanted to quietly, gently, offer her my hand, but I was afraid she'd run away. At such a moment, I know, a gentle hand could feel unbearable on ones skin.
My stop was quickly approaching and I did the only thing I could think of: I stood up, simultaneously pulling a small pack of tissues from my bag, and balanced them on her left knee. Surprised, she looked toward me and managed an almost inaudible thank you. Traces of salt now on her cheeks. I turned, got off the train and walked down the platform, but not without wiping my own tears on my sleeve.
Conversations over dinner that evening were just background noise. In front of me, cold food sat as I recalled the encounter. I realized later what I really saw when I first sat down in that train car, was a woman desperately trying to hold on to her composure, until she couldn't. I also realized, we were the only two people sitting on that end of the car. A moment that was just meant for her, as much as it was just meant for me.
What was it about these tulips that brought back that memory? I was stunned by the tulips, I found them to be quite striking. Their beauty, assaulting. And perhaps that's it? On a similar level, that woman's emotional rawness, pureness, dare I say beauty, stunned and assaulted me.
Whatever it was, I know today there is more life in one minute than most of us are aware of. The catch is to remember this, and be present enough to see it. I didn't board the train that day, expecting to see so much life.
I was on the train last week looking at these photos on my phone. A particular variety of tulips newly sprung in my backyard. I picked and planted these bulbs because they were not the traditional kind, at least not to me. They looked more like roses.
The intensity, perfection of their beauty suddenly brought back a memory. A memory at least twenty years old, and no more than five minutes long.
Going to meet some friends, I boarded the #4 train at Grand Central Station in New York. I was only going as far as one stop. The car I entered was relatively empty, and sitting across from me was a woman. If you asked me what she was wearing I'd have to reach far back to remember, and even then I don't know if I could with any certainty. I do recall a brown pouch, with its long strap across her chest. A woman perhaps in her late 30s, early 40s, with short black hair, olive skin and dark brown eyes.
I sat, the train doors closed and within seconds she slipped her hand into the pouch. The sadness crossing her face in that moment was indisputable. She placed an already opened envelope on her lap, and gently pulled a letter from within. I followed her gaze. By the third line, a deeper level of sadness surfaced. She began to sob. She brought her hand to her lips, but could not contain the powerful emotions. So powerful I looked away, embarrassed.
Why was I embarrassed? And for whom? I've received the same reaction from others when I've shown this level emotion. As if there's anything wrong with crying in public...as if there's anything wrong with crying.
Truth is I couldn't stop watching.
With her hand still on her lips, she shook her head. Twice her head fell back, then realigned as she continued to read through now muffled whales. I watched placing my hand on my chest, overtaken by the amount of pain I was witnessing. She managed to fold the letter with one hand, place it on the envelope, and slip them both back into the pouch. Was it the loss of a parent, a child, a lover? I will never know. She held her gaze on the pouch.
I wanted to quietly, gently, offer her my hand, but I was afraid she'd run away. At such a moment, I know, a gentle hand could feel unbearable on ones skin.
My stop was quickly approaching and I did the only thing I could think of: I stood up, simultaneously pulling a small pack of tissues from my bag, and balanced them on her left knee. Surprised, she looked toward me and managed an almost inaudible thank you. Traces of salt now on her cheeks. I turned, got off the train and walked down the platform, but not without wiping my own tears on my sleeve.
Conversations over dinner that evening were just background noise. In front of me, cold food sat as I recalled the encounter. I realized later what I really saw when I first sat down in that train car, was a woman desperately trying to hold on to her composure, until she couldn't. I also realized, we were the only two people sitting on that end of the car. A moment that was just meant for her, as much as it was just meant for me.
What was it about these tulips that brought back that memory? I was stunned by the tulips, I found them to be quite striking. Their beauty, assaulting. And perhaps that's it? On a similar level, that woman's emotional rawness, pureness, dare I say beauty, stunned and assaulted me.
Whatever it was, I know today there is more life in one minute than most of us are aware of. The catch is to remember this, and be present enough to see it. I didn't board the train that day, expecting to see so much life.
1 comment:
I feel for her..
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