I cried to a stranger on the train today
it was the first of October
I was returning from my grandma’s funeral
the sun was so sharp and big and blinding
she was 90 years old
the ocean and sky calm and translucent
I told him I was only crying on the inside
autumn’s face in gentle colors
she had lived for 90 years
the air so crisp and cool
I was crying for her and for me and for all of us
the sky layered in crimson and gold
and he said to me not to cry and be sad
while the sun was turning down
it is time to go to sleep
the field of my vision blurring
she is finally at peace
[No, that was a lie.
I didn’t cry to a stranger on the train after my grandmother’s funaral.
I was berated by the train steward. Unjustly so. I think he just had a bad day. So had I, but I didn’t tell him that. Why should I?
I have enough self-pity for myself.
No, I’m pathetic. I cannot cry like that anymore.
I cry for myself, alone, wallowing in my own sad despair about everything and nothing.
Sometimes I cry for no reason at all. Why is that? Why can’t I cry at my grandmother’s funeral – or my grandfather’s, for that matter? I haven’t even got any bigger pain as an excuse to wallow in!
I sound depressed, you might say. And maybe I am .. in some way or another. But aren’t we all?]