Chewed

The woman in the reflection knew life on a first name basis. They had dinner together, had slept together for fifty-odd years. But it was more than that. The affair had stood on the shoulders of her soul alone. She had borne more children to a father of emotion than she cared to remember, or even could remember. Ungrateful sons and daughters of introspection had taken her for everything she was worth. Her face was etched with the markings of every birth. With eyes closed, like every good mother, she bore the pain. Her short afro hair and Velcro shoelaces gave her counted control through avoidance. Five-hour-old gum kept her awake for now. Its flavor and color had long ago cooled but its purpose remained constant. I wondered what flavor and color she once was, if there was some of it still there hidden between wrinkles and teeth marks, if color could still exist in the dark. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful and then wondered when she had last heard those words spoken together and to her.

The train punctured the light of a platform and I was me again. Leaving the comfort of light, or entering the comfort of darkness (I forget which now), we ghosts picked up speed. We are beautiful, aren't we?