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| Photo: The Baltimore Sun Darkroom, 1987. |
THE LAST time we spoke was on a beautiful spring evening in Baltimore. I called to you as we unboarded the train, having spent the entire trip from Washington wrapt in the mayhem of confusion and my own heavy thoughts. You had refused to move from the Quiet Car, where I had followed you, sat next to you, said hello, and then left because it was too damned awkward. You did not join me. I sat in the next car, near a jolly group of millennials, who were laughing and joking and having their after-work happy hour, as you explained to me previously, was acceptable on the commuter trains. What a world.
So as we are leaving, I see you get out of your train car and I call your name. I run after you and you pause for me. You briefly listen. The other passengers make their way around us; we are at the Camden Yards station, the last stop. The sky is blue and the weather never better. I say, "If there is a hatchet between us, I want to bury it." And you say I freaked you out with my last letter. Your eyes are dead and serious. What had I done now? I will never get it right with you; we will never have a friendship; you cannot see me for what I am. I become ashamed and crestfallen. This is not a fight or an argument - this is something I know I cannot win. This is not quite hate, rather, a distinct void of love. Between us is a great misunderstanding. I want so dearly to know how I can make it right, but am lost.
You are on your way to the ball game; you are hurrying; you cannot stand to be near me. Our conversation is over. You are done. You want nothing to do with me. As you turn, I admit I got on the wrong train and need directions. You point me to the local tram and ticket booth. This is the last kindness I will receive from you. You never smile. You clutch your bag, turn your heels, and walk very quickly away. I don't recall if you say goodbye.
I almost miss the tram, because I wasn't sure which one to board.
I may be in shock. I am certainly dumbfounded. I am beyond the point where I want to bash my head into a brick wall because I'm so stupid and sick for your approval. I cannot exact in my mind what I did wrong, what I might have said, what I had written. And I know if I try to pin it down, if I really try to analyze how I expressed my feelings, it will only make my head explode. Because I cannot help being honest. Perhaps I was too honest and you are not my appropriate audience.
I keep learning my lessons with you, each time a little too late.
My tram car is lonely, with only another woman and man at the other end. They converse lightly, maybe flirt a little. I can feel the tears coming now; I don't fight them. They roll down my face as we pass the old Hutzler's department store. This historic Baltimore, these gorgeous buildings and impressive architecture, my fellow citizens, rich and poor. In the fading light of this lovely spring sunset I wipe my eyes. A little girl is walking with her mother, who is pushing her stroller. The little girl eyes the train and stops. She waves to me from the sidewalk, her bright face grinning.
I wave back, smiling, completely sure what love is.
events 2014
written May 24, 2016
