Train Routine

I met a man coming from the subway station. Not a good sign. The R train platform at Elmhurst is empty. Not a good sign. The F train roars through on the express track. Not a good sign as I’ll want it at the next station down the line where I’ll board it for Roosevelt Island. Missed trains. Last evening on the way home from Forest Park, it was missed buses.

How much of our 30 years here have I spent waiting on public transportation? It doesn’t matter to me this morning. After being out of town for most of three weeks, I am happy to be back in the city I love. The city, my home!

My heart clapped when I landed at LGA on Thursday. I peered out at familiar sights as the plane descended. I pulled my suitcase and squeezed into a crowded bus. It didn’t matter. I was home. People bumped and shoved while getting off at Roosevelt Avenue. I walked past the Asian market, a bar, Thai restaurants, and more. People, people everywhere.

Laurence welcomed me into our apartment. He served up momos (Tibetian dumplings) from the street vendor outside the playground on Broadway. “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Yesterday, I cooked and baked in my tiny apartment kitchen, a most peaceful place. Our miracle God but a kitchen tool that I left somewhere in New Hampshire back in the drawer right where it belongs.  (If God answers these little prayers then surely He hears my ‘big’ ones.)

The R train came, and so did the F train. I rode it to Roosevelt Island. The East River flows below where I sit on a bench beside it. Sunshine glints from a Manhattan hospital. Seagulls call. Traffic roars. The red tram glides beside the Queensboro Bridge, and I am home.

Berniece

Berniece