Happy New Year...

To The Lady on the Train,


We have come to the threshold of a new year - a step away from leaving the past year and walking into the year to come. We mark this passing of time by looking on back what has happened, what we have done, what we have not done. We make promises to ourselves to improve ourselves, our relationship, to pay better attention to what is important to us.. We mark the milestone of the year like leaving pebbles on a path so we can look at where we have been and to imagine our brighter futures.


We will count down the death of this year and start the next held in an embrace and a kiss of a loved one. In silly hats, with noise makers, with smiles and shining eyes, we will turn to the ones we are with and let our hearts be filled with hope for them and ourselves. Behind our smiles we will silently mourn the losses of the past year, celebrate our joys and we will know that one does not come without the other. And we will know that this is strength.


With smiles affixed and glasses raised in cheer, each of us holds some sadness within. In our own private thoughts, we will toast to the future; we will sing away our sadness; we will sway our way towards a hopeful and Happy New Year.


Love,


The Man in the Station

Waking Christmas morning...

To The Lady on the Train,

I can imagine, in the very early morning of Christmas day, you asleep in your bed. The house quiet in the normal way that a house still makes noises in it's sleep; a furnace breathes, a car slowly rolls past outside, a distant whistle of a night train, someone turning over... It is quiet and there is a glow of moonlight on snow that finds it way in.. Bedroom, hallway, and living room bathed in silver blue of the night.

I imagine that you are the first to stir and slowly rise. Pyjamas, slippered, and with wild hair you head downstairs silently except for the creak of that one wooden stair. In the blue early morning the light is magic the way it fills the room and yet isn't there.. And here you will sit a moment, curled up on the couch,  listening to the sounds of the house the way you listen to a sleeping lover.

I can imagine you wrapped in the magic of Christmas morning, in a house filled with love and magic... and the promise of miracles to come..

The Man in the Station

Merry Christmas...

Merry Christmas Love,

My thoughts are always with you and I wish for you every happiness. May the coming year be brighter than your imagination; may all your days be filled with love; may your dreams take you to secret places filled with magic.

Just me.

Winter Pilgrimage

Angel,

 

We have come to the threshold of winter and the darkest time of the year. Temperatures have dropped below freezing and the city is blanketed with snow. The lake beside which this city is hunched is a black abyss by night and in the day it is an expanse of cold steel. Daytime only makes the sky flat and we can barely tell where it meets the horizon. Sounds are hushed but for the wind and all of our colours have been stolen, leaving only cold grey.

 

Days like these leave me feeling empty and hollowed out and the only thing that blows in is a chill wind. It is hard to hold onto joy when the world is like this; flattened between an endless oppressive sky and muddied snow sidewalks. Even Christmas lights and streetlights are dimmed and distant. Ones spirits cannot easily rise when you cannot tell which way is up.

 

In the evening the temperature drops as the sky darkens to lead, and I kick at hardened brown snow that has been pushed up onto the sidewalk from the road. Traffic light change from one Christmas colour to another without joy but simple mechanical efficiency of getting through the day. I trudge my way through the streets under a darkening sky like a lost pilgrim and let my thoughts wander. Though my feet often lose their way, my thoughts always find a way to make it back to you.

 

Even before I am conscious of my thoughts, the wind blowing through the hole inside of me has calmed enough for some small candle to be lit. My feet carry me forward and the mist clear enough that I can picture the shape of you and soon will be able to imagine your face. I find myself talking to you, imagining you answering me. I imagine entire conversations with you and in this way I hold you close; and in holding you close I am able to find some colour in the world. I am able to hold this little candle for a little while.

 

When one is lost, sometimes a pilgrimage and a vision is the best you get to help you hold onto a little joy.

 

Just me.

Winter is coming...

To The Lady on the Train,

In this early December morning, we are only days away from winter solstice, the longest night. This season the cold came late and sudden. Only two weeks ago we were still in jackets and hoodies, laughing at how we have dodged the coming season.

Now we bundle dark layers, covered heads bowed against a wind of daggers. Shuffling and stomping like cattle trying to create our own heat as we wait for trains or trollies or buses. Our voices are hushed though the metal sounds of the city have sharpened. Even streetlights shine a cold edge, cutting the night.

The sky brightens in the east and the sun will break red over icy clouds that rest just above the lake. The day will push out the long night but won't bring to us any warmth. We will have to brace our hearts and bodies for the long deep cold of winter. 

The Man in the Station

I miss everything

There are so many things that I miss..

I miss seeing your face and hearing your voice.

I miss getting texts from you.

I miss being asked where I am.

I miss being asked what I'm doing, what I'm thinking, where I'm going.

I miss telling you those things.

I miss knowing that there is someone thinking about me.

I miss feeling connected to you.

I miss hearing about your day.

I miss listening to you debate with yourself and second guessing almost everything.

I miss knowing your heart and mind.

I miss knowing your joys and sorrows.

I miss being the one you looked to whenever you needed something.

I miss everything.

I miss you.

You...

You will never know...

Angel,


As much as you know, there are some things that you will never know. 

You will never know what it's like to fall in love with a beautiful woman. 

You will never know what it's like to have just the silhouette of her steal your breath. 

You will never know how seeing the way that light attaches itself to her and changes colours. 

You will never know what it's like to be lifted to impossible heights by the sound of her voice. 

You will never know what it's like to have your heart skip at the buzz of a text from her. 

You will never know how the world can wrap itself into the shape of her eyes. 

You will never know. 


Just me.

Sleep well...

Angel,

I hope that tonight when you lay down to sleep that the cares and worries of the day fall from your shoulders. I hope that you can sigh with an inner content, in the knowledge that you've been a positive force in the world, and knowing that tomorrow brings the promise of your potential to shine. I hope that you know that you have given love and received love and that there is no greater force for good in this world. I hope that when you sleep, your spirit and body are renewed; and your dreams take you to the places that bring you happiness. 

Sleep well. 

Just me. 

Talismans...

Angel,

I carry with me three small items. They are kept safe and close and hidden, tucked into pocket. They are tokens given in a different time and held now at times when I want to remember, though I cannot forget. My hand will brush against one of these items, or they may be gathered up together to be held briefly. These small items; an earring, a ring, a shell, are talismans with magic that can transport me to a better place and time.

In a breath I can find myself back in your office, your eyes dark, your slender fingers reaching up to your ear, unclasping the small gold hoop in your ear. We were taking our first tentative steps together on a path unknown. By this token, the path would be for us, wherever it may lead.

The shell was given and received in recognition of time spent apart though our hearts and thoughts kept us close. It was our way to share time and sun and a beach that we could not walk together.

Of the three, the ring, I hold most precious. It carries with it much of my heart and has the most power to move me - to sadness and to happiness. I keep these with me, and in some way, I keep you with me.

Just me.

Ghosts on Trains and in Stations...

To The Lady on the Train, 

I used to linger in the belly of the station as the train pulled you away from me toward your home. It was you who first used the name Lady on the Train. You said that she was crying. I said that there was a man in the station who was crying too. I no longer remember why we were crying, but I clearly remember that I felt like something inside was tearing apart.  That was the start of the Lady and the Man. 

I no longer know if I can call you The Lady on the Train. You drive as often as ride; the schedules and rhythms that we once both knew are no longer ours. Union Station no longer watches over our greetings and partings. It is like we have separate moons; the tides that ebb and flow through your life are different from mine. My moon has wobbled into a strange orbit, pulling the waters of my life unpredictably; I no longer know high tide from low. 

I have written my heart to the lady and have been lucky to have had the lady to write to. It is for the lady that I write. Since I no longer know when the lady is on the train, we do not walk together, our heads bowed to talk; since then, all of the words have dried up inside of me. They have turned to dust and blown away. A hole opened up inside of me; the wind blew in to scattering everything and then the tides flooded in to drown what was left. Still, the flotsam sloshes inside. Words have not been among them.

I will have to find a new way to write, if I am to write. I am still The Man in the Station; my ghost still sits on a bench there. Perhaps the ghost of The Lady still rides the train. Perhaps the dust of  forgotten words will blow their way to the flood around my knees and somehow reconstitute into something I can use.

To The Lady on the Train,

I will forever be...

The Man in the Station