The Crying Woman
Feeling Under Ground
The recording is a poem; below is how it came to be.
I’ve been, or was, in London, riding the subway. It had been a long time since I’d taken The Tube. I looked at my phone, checking directions. The train wasn’t crowded. Just scattered people sitting quietly.
I’d boarded with all the weight of being right and on time in my mind. But, as ever, watching. I noticed a woman standing nearby. Her back to me. I must have noticed she was tall, taller than me. Leaning over her bag. Quickly, I realized she was crying. It was loud enough to notice but quiet enough that most did not or pretended not to hear.
She was speaking on her phone. It’s unfair to I heard. But I heard enough.
“It’s my father,” she said. “He has cancer. They say tonight might be it. I’m on my way to catch a flight.”
She paused, sobbing.
“But the dog. He can’t stay alone. I can’t get keys to my boyfriend. Can you let him in?”
I listened. It made me remember my mother. She had cancer. Four weeks after diagnosis, she died. The pain was sharp, sudden, lasting.
I listened more; she, despite it all, spoke with clarity and purpose. The dog must be cared for. I can’t. My boyfriend can. But he needs access. I know he’s not on the lease, but given it all… she was left on hold.
The train slowed. My stop was next. I hesitated. I wanted to help but wasn’t sure how. I didn’t want to intrude. Touch a stranger. From behind. I recall half-deciding. I’m still not sure.
I reached out and touched her shoulder.
She turned, not startled. Calmly. Tears on her face and in her eyes.
“Good luck,” I said quietly. It felt meek.
She straightened a little. She reached, my hand on her shoulder she grasped my elbow. It feels still.
“Thank you,” she said softly. I can’t remember what I thought. I know I had thought about saying something. Something that helped.
“He’s lucky to have you as a daughter,” I said. We parted.
I stepped off the train. It moved away, toward the airport. I guess. I stood on the platform and watched it go.
Later, I sat on a bench. Early for a meeting. I recorded a few thoughts. Wrote a few notes. Mostly, I thought about all we endure. All that we carry. About kindness. About my faith in collaboration. How simple actions, one after another, piled on each other, can matter. How, I hope, we’re never truly alone. How I hope I helped this stranger take a few more steps toward a time beyond that dreadful moment.
All that put to poetry.
The Crying Woman
I boarded a London Carriage, And met a Backward Face
She bent above her Luggage, Seeking a moment of Grace.
Her Phone against her Cheek, Did whisper then implore,
A Dog too small to meek, Alone behind a Door.
Her Voice a fraying Ribbon, Between a Plea and Sigh,
To Letting Men with ledgers, Could Mercy justify.
No turn possible, Another had hold,
Her Journey was ahead , Her Father near the Threshold.
With only Night to tread, Her Worlds Loves colliding,
Of new and Last Farewell, Of Love tethered breathing.
Pain of Love that can not dwell, I reached and touched her Shoulder,
She turned a Salted Glance, I offered fortune as a meek placeholder.
“Thank you” returning touch offered as if Embrace,
“He’s lucky, to have you as a daughter” I offered hoping grace.
I left for my day’s bubbles, The Crying Woman stayed,
Still folded in her Troubles, Still beautifully, Afraid.