Musings On The Manhattan Bound N

Just the other morning, as I squeezed uncomfortably between a wet-haired blonde bitch of a woman and an older Russian man who apparently never met a deodorant he couldn't defeat, I stared down at the floor of the subway platform, avoiding eye contact with those equally annoyed by how popular that particular car had suddenly become.

And as the faces shifted at every new stop, I counted the different pairs of shoes, the colors of the socks, and to whom they were ultimately connected. It was then I noticed the face of a young girl sitting with a stack of papers in her lap, reading to herself, words no one else could translate. I tried to read her lips, but between fluttering newspapers and side-way turned coughing heads I managed only a glimpse of her moving mouth.

As she stood to exit at the 49th Street stop, one of her papers fell carelessly to the floor. I bent down to pick it up for her but within seconds, she had already departed. Instantly -- if, in fact, she was ever there to begin with...

What follows is all that could be read on the page. I thought the moment special enough to hold on to the musing, and if anyone out there knows the author, or if it's from a published piece, I'd be thrilled to hear from ya.

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My daughter, who lives in New York City, reminds me that I promised her my father's loom when she can afford a larger apartment or studio space. That's fine with me, and I am sure it would be fine with my father.

Once, when I told one of my colleagues at work I had started weaving, she was incredulous. "Has the company driven you to that?"

Not the company -- My father's loom.

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