The subway doors open at Columbus Circle
and the air on the platform
is suddenly fresh.
Trees from Central Park,
the dew of the morning,
the warming heat of August
coming up from the damp grass.
And I am back at Indian Lake,
at my grandpa's place there,
playing with my cousins.
Sailboats at the dock,
the pier stretching out like train tracks
into blue-grey water around.
Me,
terrified of the dull green grasses
that grow just off shore,
hidden beneath the surface
of the water.
My dad,
teaching me to swim
so my face stay'd dry and I could see
where I was going
without my glasses.
My mother, cool
sipping from a fragile Martini glass
while she sits on a lawn chair,
her feet up on a stool.
My grandmother in the house.
She makes her own egg noodles
and hangs them to dry on the backs
of the chairs in the kitchen.
Fish caught by grandpa for supper,
Cards and dice played after coffee,
Marshmallows toasted over fires
on the beach.
Fireflies light up the night sky,
ducking in and out of the bushes.
Wet swimsuits hang on the line.
Then the doors shut on the subway train,
and I am heading down to Seventh Avenue now.
I wish I remembered how to play Pinochle.
YOU ARE READING
Prayer Beads on the Train
Non-FictionI write about New York - and everywhere else. This is a selection of what I call my "little bus stories." I write on the New York City Mass Transit Authority - also known as the MTA, also known as the bus and the subway. My first collection of stori...
