Runaway Train

We hear the rumble and roar of the subway and race to catch it, Mama searching for a token, me slipping beneath the turnstile, the train doors closing right as we approach.

Through the windows I see a woman with a tumble of blonde hair draped over a man’s shoulder, a blur of their faces when Mama calls out Daddy’s name. And now, I can’t unsee it, can’t unsee him, can’t remember a time when Mama ever leaned on Daddy’s shoulder–not like that.

The train whines and grinds and clicks and clacks. Mama running down the platform chasing after it, me running down the platform chasing after her. It disappears into the mouth of the tunnel, and I reach for her hand, the echo of emptiness all around us.