The Train

Since becoming ill the thought that crosses my mind often as I watch the world is how that world just continues to whirl by, doesn't skip a beat, doesn't know I'm ill.  I come into contact with people on a daily basis who, if they are told I'm ill will say "wow you look great."  Is that proof of the old saw "you can't judge a book by its cover?"

Case in point.  I'll admit it.  I am an avid public voyeur, a people watcher.  I'm totally fascinated by watching, wondering and surmising what a particular persons story is.  Recently I've had far more opportunity  to participate in that strange past time that is people watching.

A month or so ago I physically lost my ability to drive.  Boy there's a privilege you shouldn't take for granted, that driving thing.  My ace team of oncologists neurosurgeons and neurologist don't really seem to know why I can't feel various parts of my lower extremities.  Which not only is that loss of feeling disconcerting, but the fact that those folks aren't' sure what's going on makes it that much more disconcerting.  These are some smart people I'm talking about.  Anyway, they think it has something to do with radiation, bone, and the fact I seem to always fall into that 2% rarity percentile.  Be that as it may I'm unable to drive but can still walk.

Not being able to drive very early each morning my wife is kind enough to deliver me to the light rail platform so I can make the commute in to the office.  Some mornings I'm a bit early for my train but too late for the one before.  On one of these mornings not too long ago was the first time I noticed the man.

The man was sitting on one of the transit benches that reality dictates be designed for cold discomfort.  Knees pressed together, back straight he's clutching a bouquet.  On this day the bouquet is roses.  I move on down the platform industriously checking my emails on my "phone that is smarter than me" and he passes from my attention. 

As my train leaves the platform and I peer out the window I see the man, bouquet in hand, walking down the sidewalk.  How odd.  He didn't get on the train at all.

I see the man at the platform a few times after that first odd encounter.  Primly sitting on the autumn cold bench, clutching a bouquet and waiting.  Waiting for what I had assumed was to board the train and each time that assumption vanished as I peered out the window from my passing train and watched the man march purposely down the sidewalk, bouquet in hand.

I don't see the man everyday as I don't arrive at the platform the same time everyday and on other days I don't go to the platform at all.  Today however, the world conspired to deliver this public voyeur more information.

I happened to arrive just as a train pulled in.  The man rose from today's decidedly Autumn cold bench clutching a bouquet of out of season Daffodils.  He timed his rise from the bench perfectly to coincide with the opening of the train doors.  There he stood, waiting, standing, the bouquet now clutched in a hand thrust toward the now open and very empty train doors.

Somehow as I waded through traffic and made my way up onto the platform I lost sight of the man.  As I approached the now unoccupied bench there were Daffodils like a bright yellow splash across the bench.  The man?  No where in sight.

Perhaps at some point today the man will either rudely or accidentally let the store door close in your face.  Perhaps he will accidentally or purposely cut you off on the free way.   The world speeds on and just like the world doesn't know I'm sick we don't know, by looking, what the state of the person next to us is or what they are going through. 

I work real hard now to keep this in mind when someone is rude or cuts in line or any of the myriad of things that used to just piss me off.  Their day or life could be going much much worse than mine.

As for the man on the platform.  Over the last few years I've learned a bit about futility and hope.  My hope is that those Daffodils I saw this early morning splashed across the bench were just accidentally dropped by the man on the platform and he hasn't given up on his hope that will someday step out of those empty train doors.