old town station

 I type in your name to send you a note… I see that you are eight or nine months pregnant in your profile photo, and I find myself at a loss for words. There is no indication of when you were last online, of course, people tend to hide these things these days. So I don't bother to message. 

I think of you often… and the night we met. The way you touched your belt buckle each time you spoke to me. When I asked why, you said it was to save your soul from being stolen by a ginger. You said it was a Spanish belief. It was wonderfully hilarious. In spite of your being Spanish, your accent sounded almost English, and I felt that you had a Scottish look. A few hours later we were kissing... kissing in the bar, kissing in the street, kissing in my hotel. We spoke about how it felt like more and like we had known each other for years.

The next day I had to fly to a different part of Spain as my band was playing at a festival. Through all of the wonderful messages we were exchanging, you seemed a little bit upset or worried about me being with the band in the north… and when I came back a few days later, you seemed angry. Nevertheless, for months afterwards, we continued to message in a fever of romantic desire and anticipation, even to the extent of discussing a move to be together. Alas, as with all things in life, the flame dwindled and eventually died in the arms of another. He didn’t last, but it seems that now you have found your light.

I lie here in bed in San Diego... growing old, but not giving in. It has been a momentous week. The first person I wanted to turn to to tell about the events unfurling is no longer with us. Others are there in flickering moments between their own personal hells. Wasting away at work or fighting their way through wayward love.

 

Life is such a beautiful and sad and full and empty tapestry. It’s paradoxical. I wonder how people feel about their kids, especially those with difficult lives, and if they fear the future. On Saturday I took the bus to Ocean Beach and, on the way home, a mother boarded the bus with her two daughters. One was about three years old and the older one around six. The younger one was crying but quickly fell asleep on the bus, lying across two seats with her head on her mother’s lap. The older daughter broke my heart as she was gazing into her mother’s eyes constantly, I could see that she was hoping for her mother to look at her, to acknowledge her, to offer her a morsel of recognition and love. But the mother was tying the younger girl’s hair into a braid and simply would not look at the older girl. My assumption is that she was upset with the girl. The girl eventually looked at me and I smiled at her. She smiled back, but a small, slightly sad smile.

The bus stopped at Old Town Station, and we all transferred to take trains to our destinations. The mother and her two daughters trundled off to take a train in the opposite direction to mine and I watched them with a heavy heart, hoping for great happiness and joy to come to them.

 

I miss everyone.









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