what i can't hear.

i am uncomfortable.

the morning sun is too harsh on my face, coming in crossways through the right side of the train car. half of me winces in the glare; half of me rests in the shadow of it.

the train hurtles along towards its downtown destination. my wool turtleneck and scarf stifle, but i am too tired to try to take them off. i just sit still. the sky all around me – these train cars are all windows and redirected light – is the blue of a cold swimming pool. the sun slices directly through it – if it were a photograph, the sun would have points, like a star – like the star it is. points at once sharp and vague, like everything upon which is it too difficult to focus.

as the train turns a corner, a plane takes off. i watch it rise above the rooftop of reagan national airport, tilted up and moving north, like us. it slips ahead, and up, without a sound to my ear, like the most natural thing in the world, just ascending towards its chosen destination. a second later, a flock of birds lift off from the building, afraid of being left behind.

everything rises.

i listen to the sound of the wheels on the tracks. i listen to the whine and groan of the car’s joints and cracks. i listen to what i am not seeing, and i watch what i can’t hear.

i watch until i can’t see anything moving upward anymore. the sun beats down. and i’m content just to move forward, for now.