on the way to san francisco on a sunday morning (tableaux from a solitary weekend, 2 of 3)

I was wearing the same skirt that I have on today. He was wearing pants of nearly the same color. I taught him the word sequin.

I left home later than usual today and had to run the last block and a half to catch the train. These aren't exactly running shoes on my feet this morning. The train is nearly empty when I board, which is not terribly unusual for a Sunday, at least not for a non-game-day Sunday. I sit down by myself, which is not at all unusual. I am used to having an empty seat next to me. But today it is different. Today it is not empty. Today it is full of loss.

Seven Sundays ago, I found myself, as I usually do, on the train to San Francisco on a sunny morning. That Sunday was different, though. That day I found next to me not an empty seat but a smiling face, a musical voice, a bright intellect, a beautiful, if enigmatic, soul. Cheerful conversation and warm company took the place of what can sometimes be a tedious hour-long train ride. The excitement of a new friendship and hope in the beginning of something great accompanied me for the rest of the day.

Now, all those things are gone, and today, here on the train, I feel the sting of loss. The warmth and excitement lasted for a while; the mystery and fascination only grew over time. But desires clashed one with another one too many times, and finally the hope was broken beyond repair.

I can only hope to hope again, to find hope embodied in someone new. Someday. When I am not even hoping for it.