Buzz

There is sand inside my phone case. I hesitate to take it off for fear of scratching it, but perhaps I'm more afraid of losing the last grains of warm vacation airs and the levity of Elsewhere. 

We ride the rush hour train to JFK; an earlier incident, of course, and the train is both late and chock full, but we squeeze in and the baby never wakes. I leave them at the AirTrain entrance, this sterile hallway of white and windows, and my tears look ugly and out of place in its air. Three months will pass quickly, she says, but we know that's not it. These are just the things we tell ourselves to ease the weight in our chests. 

The trains are delayed going back as well. The evening grows dark, and freezing, as the text comes in from across the seas. We're engaged. Perhaps we can set the wedding so you'll be home for it, too. 

Eventually, the Friday night A train into Manhattan, into my dirty crooked streets, my tiny room in the Village, back to the one place where none of those sorrows fit. I smile before we even reach the East River. 

Remember it is worth the every lost grain of sand.