A rather futile entry, but there you go.
Fragile moments of temporary vulnerability, parting like curtains in a dark room. On the bus ride home after work today, packed in tight with other droopy bodies, a gangly, pale, red-eyed man got on with his companion, a woman so thin and pale that she was not much more than a whisper. "We don't have any bus fare; she just got out of the hospital and we had to get medication" he said to the driver in a plain-spoken but steady voice. No entitlement or arrogance, but definitely a tone that expressed that he was dealing with troubles far greater than regular conventions could even touch. The bus driver had him pass through quietly, and the pair unsteadily made their way together and sat right across from me. She was thin like a bird, and I could see on her wrist that she still had her hospital identification and a Medic Alert bracelet. She was so thin that I have no idea how she was even standing, let alone out in public on a crowded bus.
The woman leaned against the gangly man with her delicate hand resting on his lap and I could see that she was resting as much as she could, even in this public place, and that she was going moment by moment finding refuge where she could. I don't know if this man was her husband or friend, but it was clear that he was a total support to her and that she needed it. I felt like I wished I could do anything to help -- offer them something from the bag of groceries crowding around my feet, a bus ticket, something, anything, but for the brief moment that my eyes met theirs it was clear that they just wanted privacy and distance from the loud world around them. To address them would likely have been an intrusion.
So much to say about unspeakable, heartbreaking things that I have seen, sad and also joyful and beautiful, but these are things that I can't write away tonight. Suffice it to say that sometimes I'm reminded that we are so fragile and broken at different times in our lives. The illusion of "us" and "them" is pretty much just that: an illusion. Everybody hurts. We should be gentle and kind. Whoever those people are, my heart goes out to them in whatever limited way, and I hope they will be okay, whatever they are going through.
The woman leaned against the gangly man with her delicate hand resting on his lap and I could see that she was resting as much as she could, even in this public place, and that she was going moment by moment finding refuge where she could. I don't know if this man was her husband or friend, but it was clear that he was a total support to her and that she needed it. I felt like I wished I could do anything to help -- offer them something from the bag of groceries crowding around my feet, a bus ticket, something, anything, but for the brief moment that my eyes met theirs it was clear that they just wanted privacy and distance from the loud world around them. To address them would likely have been an intrusion.
So much to say about unspeakable, heartbreaking things that I have seen, sad and also joyful and beautiful, but these are things that I can't write away tonight. Suffice it to say that sometimes I'm reminded that we are so fragile and broken at different times in our lives. The illusion of "us" and "them" is pretty much just that: an illusion. Everybody hurts. We should be gentle and kind. Whoever those people are, my heart goes out to them in whatever limited way, and I hope they will be okay, whatever they are going through.
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