27 Minutes
by Amanda Wilbur
7:05 am:
I sit on the hard wooden bench. Every day, on my way to work, I sip my nearly too hot coffee and wait for my 7:32 train. Every day. Except one thing is different- I am here 27 minutes early. So here I am, coffee in hand with nothing to do but sit. I feel different this morning. I did not bustle around
my house, walk hurriedly to the station, and just make the train. I can sit, sip, observe. The empty platform feels foreign, I hope the bustle of the station will begin soon.
7:08 am:
Someone walks onto the platform. She is young, much too young to be working a nine to five. It is a Friday, after all, I wonder if she plans to visit a lover, or take
a day in the city, maybe to see a friend. She seems excited, tapping her foot, rapidly texting and smiling at her phone. Her joy infects me, I can’t help but feel my lips part into a smile.
7:11 am:
More commuters trickle in. I start to reach for my phone, but pause as I
notice an older man entering the platform. He is wearing nice clothing, a suit and tie, complete with a briefcase, but these are not what catch my attention. No, it is that he is crying. His eyes are watery, his nose red, and he stands stone faced, but clearly in distress. Nobody else seems to notice, engrossed in their phones or focused on finding the correct platform. I glance back over to the young girl, but she is still giddily texting. There is this man in distress, this excited young girl, and there is me, waiting for a train.
7:19 am:
My phone long forgotten, I continue to observe the newcomers to the platform.There is a mother with a pair of twins, and she tries to hush them while juggling her bags and finding her platform. Behind them stands an elderly couple, hand and hand. They barely speak, but are clearly content in each other’s company. The older man still has red eyes, the young girl still giggles, I still sip my coffee.
7:26 am:
The train should be coming soon now, yet why do I hope it will delay? The platform is crowded now, and I cannot focus on anything but the duality of emotions in front of me. Watery eyes, eyes that are lit up, eyes glued to a screen. Some carry circles under them, some are drawn up with makeup, and some peacefully closed, those trying to get a few last drops of rest before
the world awakens this morning. The couple still hand in hand, the mother hushes her children, the older man still with red eyes, the young girl giggles, I sip my coffee.
7:31 am:
I can hear the train approaching now. My coffee is down to the dregs, sipped away with each incoming soul sharing the platform, now crowded, all anticipating the train’s arrival. My coffee fills me up, but so too do these strangers. Phones ring, shoes hit the floor, luggage is wheeled. The couple still hand in hand, the mother hushing her children, the older man still with red eyes, the young girl giggles, my coffee is drained. As the train screeches to a halt, the passengers begin
shuffling towards the openings, hoping for good seats. I look back over to the subjects of my observation. I hope the young girl enjoys her day, that the man’s red eyes are calmed, that the mother and her twins have a peaceful day together, and that the old couple continue to have days full of this love every day.
7:32 am:
I gather my belongings and join the fray pushing towards the openings. As I step onto the train, I see the young girl tuck away her phone, the man wipe his eyes, and the mother fold her stroller. Glancing behind me, the older man helps his wife gently on behind me. It comforts me
that we will be together a moment longer this morning, moving as one, the same track carrying us to different destinations. Maybe I’ll arrive 27 minutes early tomorrow too.
