Striking Resemblance

I assumed it was normal drunken banter on the train.

But I was wrong.

Rather, I was eavesdropping on a profound act of kindness.

One man, middle-aged,

--on whose face the tide of personal circumstance

had imprinted the creases and wrinkles

of advanced years--

reclined as if enjoying the comfort of his own sofa,

open tin in hand.

One man, young,

bespectacled and fresh-faced,

with container-less hands.

There was a son,

long separated

who bore a striking resemblance.

A small voice adrift in a heaving swell of regret,

capped with shrill spray of vitriol directed at

Herself.

There was no exchange.

Only the recounting of loss,

tumbling wave upon wave.

Young

eyes blinked

chin nodded

ears overflowed with patience.

Stop approaching,

he stood.

No halo,

only harsh, overhead lights.

The middle-aged man bestirred.

Time for a smoke.

This stop as good as any

for a man with no where to be.

A smile

the slightest wave of a hand

a gesture of benediction

as the train, embarrassed,

quietly pulled away

from this sacred act of kindness.