30th street station

Three years or so back, when the morning was still too early, a sleepy girl followed her boyfriend up to the train platform to wait.  The city and all it has was still new and scary, and she needed someone with her.  Of course, then she didn't really need to pay attention.

Much later, the station became a test.  It was one more step in figuring out independence: to find one's way home.  But it's not so bad, really.  Read the signs and watch the times.  It'll even tell you... "The scheduled - 7: - 42 - R7 - to Trenton - next to arrive - on track 3."

This turns to second nature, easily.  The emotion shifts to comfort.  When you know you're going home, everything is going to be okay.  There's no worry of being alone, no want of surrounding and immediate love, no need for the concerns of taking care of yourself.  So you step on board and leave to soak in that world for a couple of days.  When you come back, it's: here's my city, baby.  And the routine is ahead, like always.

There's a spot outside where I stood, holding, holding onto, one whom I had no idea of when I'd next see.  The seconds I had were not enough time to learn the process of parting.  So I decided quickly that maybe I didn't have to.

There's a bench, the first one you reach in the Amtrak waiting area, where we sat together.  Everything I had inside begged for this moment not to be the last.  So I stayed close while I could, said what was right, and waited.

There's an Auntie Anne's inside, along my walk to the corner doors.  That's where he said I shouldn't let him stop, and I didn't completely pay attention, because I was a little weak with the happiness.  It would be short, but it would be.

It was: everything.