Snow descends from the sky, covering all beneath its path in a white blanket, muffling the activity of the creatures on the surface, who trudge back and forth like ants.
You are one of millions of them, making a way through the snow. You find a warm underground tunnel, a warmer train car, and sit.
He alights like the others, a part of the astigmatism, your own cosmic microwave background. A suit. He sits down in front of you, almost disappears. But there’s a moment in between the stop-and-go, when both your eyes meet. And you’ll remember, for a long time, the two dark mirrors.
You return to the river of thoughts. The book you’re reading about the pale horse and rider. The cute girl on the train. You lean back and spread your legs, hold the book in one hand. She doesn’t seem to notice.
Afterward, you’ll ask yourself: Had he decided already? Was he, like all of us, a ghost, shuffling about in time long gone?
When Grandpa died, you checked his pulse at his wrist, and felt cold. You felt his neck, and felt cold. You searched his body for what there’d been before, the mechanism that made him go. You searched his abdomen, and felt warmth - heat! It was as if part of him were still clutching at life, before it lost. Then you realized, or remembered, that it’d always been there, the seed of death; that he carried it, as we all do, inside.
You spot his headless reflection in the window at your stop. He’s alive again in your mind. But the doors open, and he’s gone. You walk to where you have to go, and wait. When it happens, you’re not looking. People scream; the train horn blares; you turn around and catch a blur, a shadow of a man connecting with the train. The emergency breaks slam on. The train shrieks to a halt.
You don’t move. People continue to scream and to invoke God. But you don’t know what for. No more pain. You don’t want to, but you look; he’s a soup now, green and red. No more.
No story. So, you tell yourself one. John was in his mid-forties. He had two kids, a boy and a girl. A wife he loved and who loved him. A house, a big house with most of the mortgage paid off. A large yard and a pool. A favorite shirt. A dog. No, you decide, a dog and a cat since he seemed to have a bit of everything. Plenty of friends. Some debt. Family scattered about the country.
A thumbprint of life. A wrinkle in the cosmic fabric. Now, a cut strand.
You wonder: What were his kids’ names? Did he have a favorite? Had he ever kicked the dog? Did he feel bad about it? Did he and his wife have good sex? How often did they do it? What was it like the first day they met? What was it like the first time they kissed? Did he think about that before he died? Did he think about you at all before he jumped? If you’d met, would the both of you have been friends?
Then you see it. The ring on the platform.
Did she leave him because he worked too much? Or because he cheated? Or was she the cheater? How many times did she do it? With whom? Did she enjoy it? Feel guilty afterward? Enjoyed it more than with him? Did the other guy love her as much as her husband did?
You wish you could’ve held his hand, or hugged him, and told him that’s it’s going to be OK; you know, better than most. You know what it’s like to loathe every breath. It wasn’t all because of her, but she left you. You loved her, and she didn’t seem to care. You cried like a child, were willing to do anything because you loved her. But she still left you. Nothing was special about this damn thing, not you, and not anything you did, or your mother did, or anything you would ever do because this thing - whatever it is - held no meaning, an illusion of an illusion. It couldn’t get better. You, like so many nameless, forgotten faces, were doomed. So why not? Put an end to the inane.
It made too much sense. And you would’ve. You had prepared everything. Had decided without emotion, on reason. But someone called at the right time. You told them, and they told others. “Help,” they called it. You hated the “help.” Most of all, you hated being there: all the white, and the crazies who were way worse off than you, and the lights that never turn off. Of course, you wanted to die in there, too. But you couldn’t; they’d thought of that. You were stuck. You within you, for days – who knows how long? You had to face you, because you is what you had. That helped you understand better: it was always just you, within you. Whether any of it mattered or not, you within you decided. Whether it was the worst or best day, you within you made it so.
Never again, you said, will you go back there, will you let this thing happen, will you be so manipulated and controlled by outside forces. It was hard, but there was nowhere to go, just you within you. You called people, to pass the time, to talk. You attended the workshops. You decided you’d join a gym when you got out, and even leave the house every once in a while. That’s what you told the psychologist, and she agreed. When you got out, you implemented the plan. And, little by little, you got better. You focused on things that matter like friendship, and love, and meaningful work. You made friends, and kept them. Within weeks, you started dating, which you hadn’t thought was possible for you anymore. And you found meaningful work. You changed it: all. You decided to live, because you weren’t going to die.
You look one last time. A tear forms in your eye as the police arrive. You walk away. Bye, brother, you say; and try to remember. But you know that time will slip the pattern of electrons into weaker and weaker flux. It’ll fade, like everything else. At least, he was.
Outside, you inhale winter. Your winter. And move through the pale carpet, creating a path that will be filled up later by more snow.
THE END