At Downtown Crossing, a middle aged woman in a pant-suit got on the train and sat down a seat away from me. The train was full, no empty seats and tall young men and women standing and looking at their phones--when suddenly the woman broke into a wail of anguish. With her phone pressed to her ear, she held her face and leaned over: My son is dead. My son is dead.
Over the next minutes as she tried to get through to the hospital and get details, we who sat and listened learned there had been a car accident, that the boy was 14, that it was really her child who was gone.
She wept, deep, hawking sobs, her body heaving. She pled to Jesus for some other fact to be the case. She was in an agony of anguish.
I didn't know what to do, didn't know how to respond, and said as much to the woman on the other side of me who said herself she was at a loss. And the black woman across the way, and the young man with the laptop. As it went on, station after station, the faces took on the shape of sorrow, as I felt mine had, and we wiped our eyes. My son is dead, she cried over and over.
She stood at the door, hanging from a pole. One woman put her arm around her unti the next stop. My neighbor got up and offered tissues from a little packet. Another woman who looked as if she knew something said a few words, but nothing went on except the heart-wrenching wailing until she got out at Stony Brook.
When we got to Forest Hills, we all left the train without looking at each other, each seared by the terrible emotions, the awful event, we'd just been in the presence of.
My wife had had a hard day, angry at herself for, uncharacteristically, getting taken by a asphalt dumping scam, but she had some ideas of what I coud have done. You could have gone with her to the hospital. Yes, I suppose you're right. I didn't think of it. I had a handkerchief not tissues and an arm around the shoulder: would that be right?
Oh, ma'am, I am so sorry for this nightmare news that tore you to pieces before us. We weren't heartless, just shy in the face of so intense a grief. Still justification doesn't matter; what does is the pain in which you are going to live for the next frightful days, pain which could as well be the lot of any of us who love.
May you soon be in the arms of a comforter, ma'am, and may the presence of God-in-love be with you with more potency than shown by any of us on the train who listened, prayed and wiped our eyes. I'm baffled, somewhat ashamed, and so, so sad.
Over the next minutes as she tried to get through to the hospital and get details, we who sat and listened learned there had been a car accident, that the boy was 14, that it was really her child who was gone.
She wept, deep, hawking sobs, her body heaving. She pled to Jesus for some other fact to be the case. She was in an agony of anguish.
I didn't know what to do, didn't know how to respond, and said as much to the woman on the other side of me who said herself she was at a loss. And the black woman across the way, and the young man with the laptop. As it went on, station after station, the faces took on the shape of sorrow, as I felt mine had, and we wiped our eyes. My son is dead, she cried over and over.
She stood at the door, hanging from a pole. One woman put her arm around her unti the next stop. My neighbor got up and offered tissues from a little packet. Another woman who looked as if she knew something said a few words, but nothing went on except the heart-wrenching wailing until she got out at Stony Brook.
When we got to Forest Hills, we all left the train without looking at each other, each seared by the terrible emotions, the awful event, we'd just been in the presence of.
My wife had had a hard day, angry at herself for, uncharacteristically, getting taken by a asphalt dumping scam, but she had some ideas of what I coud have done. You could have gone with her to the hospital. Yes, I suppose you're right. I didn't think of it. I had a handkerchief not tissues and an arm around the shoulder: would that be right?
Oh, ma'am, I am so sorry for this nightmare news that tore you to pieces before us. We weren't heartless, just shy in the face of so intense a grief. Still justification doesn't matter; what does is the pain in which you are going to live for the next frightful days, pain which could as well be the lot of any of us who love.
May you soon be in the arms of a comforter, ma'am, and may the presence of God-in-love be with you with more potency than shown by any of us on the train who listened, prayed and wiped our eyes. I'm baffled, somewhat ashamed, and so, so sad.
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