It’s an average Thursday evening in May. It’s rush hour. The uptown Q train pulls into Union Square. It’s overcrowded, but quiet. I step onto the car, keenly aware of my dirty high top converse in a sea of commuting kitten heels and dress shoes.
There’s an open seat in one of the rear cars and I plop down next to two older men. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please” The doors slide shut and the train jerks forward. My flood gates open.
The tears fall fast: restless and unbridled. They spill down my cheeks and onto the second-hand canvas bag that I clutch in my lap. I pause the music on my phone in hopes that less stimulation will give me a semblance of control over my emotions.
I’m crying on the Q train again and I plead with my brain “wait until we’re home, please.” I include the word “please” because I’ve been practicing self compassion. But, there is no bartering with my mind today and no amount of self compassion will change that.
The woman across from me is dressed in scrubs. She has tired eyes and she stares at me almost pitifully. I dodge her gaze and accidentally meet the eyes of the man on my right in a suit. He clutches his briefcase with less urgency than I do my tote bag. My eyes fall slowly to the floor in front of me. It feels safer down here.
Crying in the silence of your bedroom is one thing. You’re protected by walls and windows and familiarity. There is no audience to witness your demise. But, crying in public feels utterly terrifying. Suddenly your baggage is laid bare to strangers on the subway at rush hour. It’s a level of vulnerability that feels akin to a walk of shame.
I’m authoring the most intimate of thoughts in the most public of spaces. That’s a side effect of this city.
My gaze is still settled on the ground and I nearly jump when a man taps me on the shoulder.
He too is dressed in a suit. We lock eyes for a moment. He says nothing.
Instead, he nods, hands me a wad of tissues, and then silently steps off the train. My tears fall faster now.
In a city where people often feel like islands, I now feel more like an archipelago.
There’s no right way to say goodbye to spaces, or people, or experiences that encourage you to grow. The places you once cried from desperation and aching emptiness become the same places you cry in celebration.
The Q train as my witness.
No matter how you spin it, endings will always be brutally painful. You can tie them up in pretty bows, dress them in lace, trim the edges neatly and stand back to admire your work. But nostalgia creeps in swiftly and quietly.
Sometimes I think that I’m in love with the painful feeling of nostalgia. How lovely to have something to miss.
How beautiful is this city that broke me down, chewed me up, spit me out, and then helped me back up.
How humbling to have a stranger hand you tissues while you lose composure on the subway.
