More dispatches from the train

Brassaï: from his exhibition "For the Love of Paris”

Yesterday, after a day spent packing up most of my office:

I'm on a train easing slowly through the bowels of Penn Station. Overhead, lights cast a brilliant sheen on metal surfaces of stationary train cars and snaking tracks. My brain, in hardcore farewell mode, filters this scene as unbelievably gorgeous, like Paris (I imagine) in the rain.

The way the early-evening light filters through I-beams, as we pause in the spot where spiky city skyline emerges before we plunge into the tunnel, breaks my heart open.

I feel the bulk of a beautifully worn radio tuner at my feet, third in a series of heavy audio pieces being carefully lugged home each evening I can manage to find a ride home from the station.

I find these once commonplace moments to be startlingly heartbreaking. My heart opens wide to catch these last few drops on this side of my life.

I feel a bit ridiculous but also unbelievably lucky.  How often do we get to fully inhabit these moments of our lives? Saying goodbye to the here and now is one of the best ways to appreciate it, no?

* * * * *

And now, at home the day before we load up a 16-foot truck, I pack some more! Soon I'll be crying over some expired MetroCards, forgotten in the back of my desk.