An old man in a wheelchair holds a cane, saying good bye. Family kissing him, hugging him, tears, helping him ease from the wheel chair and climb the steps, guiding him to his seat . . . and before I hear him, before his voice comes my way, tears are choking me, my throat closing . . . and then I hear the gravelly old man sound . . . and it's complete -- Grandad.
Grandad going on a trip. Calgary maybe. It must've been a bit like this, though he would've gotten around better than this man. And now I'm breaking up for real, no better place than in station to do so, everybody cries here. Let it flow. Tears stain page, blur ink.
Look out the window. Seek abstraction, distraction, anything to block the familar voice.
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