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?]


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