A Writing Journey

A mother holds her son on her lap. He leans back, the tight ash-brown curls on his head tucked under her chin. He smiles. She looks down and kisses his head. 

“We’re outside again, Mama,” he says, turning to look out the window.

The subway train heads northbound from Yonge-Bloor out of the underground darkness – the “sardine can” — and into the light.

“When are we going to go under again?” the boy asks. 

“Soon,” his mother responds, “But look, it’s snowing!”

With the mention of snow, the two women seated beside them whose heads are buried in their phones, look up.   

“Isn’t spring supposed to begin in a couple of days?” the first asks the second, transfixed by the boy’s wide eyes.

“Yes, officially it’s Friday. But those snowflakes are awfully pretty!” The reply seems intentionally directed to the mother and son, who watch the scenes outside rushing past their periphery.

The boy quickly changes the topic.  “When are we getting off?”

“At Eglinton, just four more stops.”

“Oh, that’s my station!” chimes the first woman.

“My stop is before that, Davisville,” woman number two counters. “You know, the one with the bridge, where you can see the trains pass underneath?”

The mother recognizes it instantly.  “Oh yes, we know the bridge at Davisville. We go there a lot, don’t we,” she says, as she snuggles her son in close.  “Funny, my older son also knows the bridge very well.  During COVID, when we were all locked down, that was our daily outing because what else was there to do. He was two at the time. We would walk over the bridge to watch the trains.”

The two women and the mother smile at one another; the little boy now fidgeting with his fingers while swinging his legs up and down.

Six years, I think to myself. That’s when we were wearing masks, locked down and confined to our homes. Six years … when the subway was empty and lifeless. 

Today, I feel grateful for the conversation across the aisle.  It’s a small moment of humanity in the middle of the day I won’t let pass me by.