Healing wounds

After looking forward to going to bed early last night, I finally closed my eyes around 1:30 a.m. I wanted to be up at 5:30 before day one of a three day job in Chelsea, editing a piece for The Normandy Museum in France. I wanted time for the gym, a leisurely breakfast and a long, hot shower. I wanted to wash my hair and blow-dry it nice, I wanted a peaceful walk with Annie to school before hopping on the train. And even though 1:30 was later than I aimed for, it was all going to be doable. Then at 3:30 a.m. I was woken up by the clanking and banging of my bedroom's radiator. Half asleep and in the dark, I got down on my knees. I tried to turn the valve but couldn’t get it tight enough to stop the noise. I turned and turned, so desperate to climb back into my bed, but on the final turn, hot water started spilling onto the floor then spraying out and burning my hand. I went searching the apartment for pliers to no avail, I wrapped the valve in a wet rag and battled with it while my hand throbbed in excruciating pain. It was so dark outside and so late, and suddenly a wave of aloneness swept over me. As the relentless rattling of the radiator grew louder and the water continued to pour out, I felt sorry for myself, pathetic, and I sat on the floor and wept.

Eventually the water stopped coming, I opened both windows wide, climbed back into bed, fell asleep at 5:30 and woke up 2 hours later after dreaming of a man who broke my heart.

I jumped in the shower, there was no time to wash my hair and I'm always slightly out of sorts if my hair isn't clean. I put on eye make-up but it couldn’t conceal the night before. There’d be no leisurely breakfast, instead I shoved down a protein bar as I rushed to get Annie, then we ran all the way to school so she wouldn’t be late.

As the train carried me downtown I turned on my iPod and tried to move beyond the past few hours. The conductor announced there was trouble on the tracks at 59th street and we would be held... until we weren’t held any more. I was going to be late for a job I would only be working two or three days.

There was a family on the train, a grandmother, her four grown kids and one grandchild. The little girl sat beside me and her young father stood above us talking with his sister. They were playful and sweet with one another, all sharing a train ride and getting off at their respective stops. When it was clear we wouldn't be moving for a while, the young father said to his sister, “Maybe I should entertain everyone.” But the sister teasingly told him no one would appreciate that so early in the morning.

“Do you sing?” I asked. He smiled and nodded.

“Do you sing well?” He said yes.

“Then why don’t you sing for us?" I said, "It wouldn’t be nice if you kept that to yourself while we’re stuck here.”

The sister whispered to her brother, “Sing for her.”

He stood over me, slightly bent down, and looked deeply into my tired eyes. He sang me a love song, the kind about not leaving, the kind about staying, the kind about not being able to live without... and his voice was better than good, it was beautiful, powerful and tender. As the song came to an end, his family watched him in silence and with pride, and when they saw tears coming down my face, they all laughed, I laughed too.

Soon the train pulled forward and we all resumed our conversations, and just before I stood up to exit at 34th street the little girl looked up at me and smiled.

"I like your hair," she said, "It’s pretty.