Waiting for the Train
From our UK edition
Early spring cherry blossom by the tracks — so prim and so dirty, all at once. The bees must be dropping to their knees. For me, it’s after the harvest, only just but even so, a different season. There are elderly women on the platform in beautifully cut coats and expensive shoes. I know that’s where I’m heading, but not yet. I can feel the sap humming in my hips and legs; my hair taken by the wind is still a good thing. You surprise me with coffee and wait with me. It’s unexpected and lovely, your regard. Window box platonic but definitely that spark. Like standing in the sun on a bitter cold day, tasting the froth brim over the top of my cup. The station master recites where the train is going; no one cares where it has been.