The sweet deal with my commute is that I board the subway at Alewife, a terminus station, guaranteeing me a seat in the morning so I can pick through the New York Times during the bustling 20-minute journey to South Station. Yesterday I sat at the end of the car and read the front page while the car steadily filled up. The warning bell rang, the doors closed, and we were off.
Next to me sat a woman with enough girth spilling over into my seat to cramp me up against the window and encumber my page-turning. Ten years ago, I would have pegged her as mid-50s, but age has conferred a better sense of the timeline of its cruel effects. Her frizzy brown hair with stray thick strands of gray, the smooth ruddy jowls, and the excess weight hidden beneath ill-fitting cotton and polyester signaled a woman in her early 40s whose appearance is in strict survival mode.
I was cerebrum-deep in an article about our idiot President and barely took notice of her, until I discerned that her body shook rhythmically, her breathing was deep and stifled, and her hands were covering her face. I looked at her, thinking she was sick. But no, she was crying.
Ten years ago, I would have buried my face into my newspaper, but age has also conferred an understanding that a stranger’s kindness can be precious. “Do you need a tissue?” I whispered to her as the train stopped at Davis Square and quickly became packed.
Her hands didn’t move from her forehead, but she whispered back “Yes, please.” I retrieved my make-up bag from my backpack and rummaged for the package of clean tissues that lurked within a pile of used tissues. Dammit, where was it? Just as I feared that I would have to rescind my offer, my hand touched the plastic wrapping and I pulled out the tissues. I held out two of them. “Here.”
She took them with her right hand, and covered her face again. “Thank — you.” There was a gulping breath between her words that caught the attention of the commuters standing in front of us. The woman sat like this for the rest of the train ride, and was still there when I got off. Ten years ago, I would have promptly forgotten about her, but age has conferred empathy for the weary.
