Old Commute Again

Ailish Connell

These days I wait for the train. If I miss it, I stand with my back against the station wall and look at the birds who don’t know better milling on the tracks. Today, with you on my mind, with your groceries, I sit on the end of a bench with the oversized paper bag in my lap, even though a couple is already occupying the other end.

It’s light now, but barely. By the time I reach your door, a cold, wet dark will have taken the city, and I’ll exhaust myself walking back home through it.

There’s a commotion of noise and birds as the train pulls in, just barely stopping in time, always seeming like it will miss us, just keep going. The couple stands and waits for the doors to open, holding hands even though they are not speaking, and I follow them into the warm car like a kid.

My mom thinks I’m screening your calls. Oh, she would be angry if she saw me now. But I heard about your idiot surgeon from Marcy. When you called me, I know I sounded confused, but that is only what I do to hide. Of course, let me go to the pharmacy for you, let me get your pills, let me buy you soup, I wanted to say, when all I said was, oh… sure, okay, no, it’s no problem.

Your prescription rattles somewhere in the big brown bag as the train shakes out over the bridge. I’m swaying in my seat, not as stable as I’d like, but I make myself sit up straight, careful not to lean into the suited man beside me. I catch glimpses of sunset, when the standing people shift just so. When I get home, I will write down the name of your medicine before I collapse, and look it up tomorrow morning.

A woman down the car sneezes and is blessed, a baby starts crying but gives up quickly. I hope it’s not all too much. The medicine, I got that like you asked, but also the cans of minestrone, the box of muffins from the bakery section, a little bundle of organic bananas. I hope they will say the things I never can when you see me in the street. I hope they won’t make things worse; but right now, I don’t think much could.

The tracks are turning into the city. I take comfort in the few stops I have left, in the people around me who are all staring at the same floor, at the same fading light beyond the windows, overthinking, overanalyzing their own little lives. I watch the sky turn orange and pick at my gloves. I don’t know why I keep them if they itch.

The train crowd is thinning. People are accepting the night, fine to go home and get comfortable, settle into it again. My sister hates you. She’s always been able to do the things I can’t. What I hate is the way I will just leave the bag outside your door. Maybe I will knock and turn away quickly, but probably I will call when I am halfway down the street. I might even lie, say I rang the bell, say oh, sorry you didn’t hear, maybe I didn’t press hard enough?

The train comes to another reluctant stop - the last one, as far as I’m concerned. When I stand, the groceries all shift a little in the bag, and my knees give a quiet pop. It’s dark now, but not totally; never totally in the city. I shuffle out, shiver a bit, get knocked in the shoulder by someone I didn’t see. I am bringing you food and medicine. That is all I can give you.