Yes, it’s been a while.
Eighteen years to be exact.
Eighteen years since you sat
across and four seats down from me
on the #6 train
from 77th Street to Astor Place.
It was just the two of us.
You watching.
Me weeping.
Did you notice that 77th Street
is the stop at Lenox Hill Hospital?
Did you wonder if I had just received
some dire diagnosis?
Did you see in me some reflection of yourself,
perhaps recalling a scary spot on a mammogram
that left you wondering and afraid?
What was it that led you to exit the train
at the door closest to my seat –
even though there was a closer one
at your end of the car?
Why did you rise a few seconds
before the train pulled into the station,
just so you could pause by my seat and say,
“Whatever it is, you’ll be all right.”
I wasn’t.
My sister died that day
in that hospital
just one block from the train,
and those tears are always
on the brink of falling again.
But I am still here as you predicted.
And now, eighteen years later,
I just want to say I love you,
for taking that moment
when you could have looked away,
but didn’t.
