This morning the air was crisp, clean, fresh. I walked to the train station along with the other commuters, a light breeze tousling our clothes and our hair, making branches and grass sway. An airplane flew south over the train tracks on a diagonal over the train tracks below. That light breeze had nothing to do with what I saw in the sky but it felt like it should. It felt like a book leaf. The moment felt like a page full of words. A train approached and departed west, criss-crossing the path of the plane like a lattice-top apple pie.
And so first I thought of things. All the times when something is right there, even visible, but is on its way, away. And then I thought of people. All the times when I am here and they are there, as we slant away from each other. (I was simply thinking of life and movement, here. This was acceptance, not sadness.) In the distance, I noticed the delicate white lines swept across the sky, the breath of airplanes long gone by. We are often vapor trails that overlap but don’t touch. The lines of this kind of intersection are both melancholy and joy because in the lightness there is also a letting go.
