Role of a Lifetime

Nostalgia brought me here. It's been so long, I've forgotten how to add entries. I need to get back.

The only thing I've written in months was the following, which I scribbled onto scrap paper during a train ride home from work. It's crap, but it's something.

6/1/2004

The man talks in a voice much too loud, even for the parked, crowded commuter train. He speaks to what must be his mother, although she appears too old for that. She speaks through the wrinkles surrounding her eyes as her son assaults her, and the rest of us, with his rapid fire and random series of anecdotal instructions, delivered in a feverish pitch that draws attention from the weary commuters nearby. Her eyes manage to convey an amazing immaturity given their experience. They widen and sparkle at each of her hyperactive son�s sentence fragments concerning the train schedule, the stop she must meet her family at, the way she may have to sit next to strangers should the train become too crowded. She appears delicate and scared that she�s not getting it all in time, a fear which becomes more clear when her son declares it�s time to leave before the doors close. She�s traveling alone, after all, and he�s rejoining the masses on the streets of Manhattan. As he leaves through the end door of the train car, I gaze at those eyes I�ve grown accustomed to, realizing I haven�t heard her speak a single word in the 10 minutes we�ve been neighbors. I contemplate offering assistance to this scare and delicate mother, until I see her expression change in an instant as her son leaves her view. The worry and confusion gives way as her mouth curls downward, blows out a short sigh, and her eyes close to the refreshing silence. She is suddenly worldly, wise, and disappointed � an actress playing the part of a lifetime. The actress snaps back into the view of my darkened train window which warps her image around the seat before me as her son reappears to burst forth through the door with 3 more �be careful� instructions. She smiles uneasily and pats his hand with a thank you dear, run along now dear, and her sorrowful eyes reappear this time in the window reflection only after I see her son run excitedly along the train platform, pausing just briefly by the window to see if he can catch just one more glance of her.