It Is What It Is

“I’ve left a lot of places.”

She says it with a shrug and a sad little smile, and I - well. I don’t know what to say.

There’s nothing self-pitying about her, as though she’s recognized the futility of fighting against the universe and has ultimately decided to allow it to have its victory, however premature it may seem to anyone else.

I can’t help but wonder if there’s something to be admired there. She’s not kicking and screaming, drawing out the struggle for its own sake. She yielded gracefully, on her own terms, before something else - that untouchable Entity - dictated the terms for her.

Most people would call her a coward. A quitter, as if there isn’t any value to understanding when a battle is lost before it’s begun.

I’m curious, too; intrusive as it feels, I want to know more about this woman, with her tired smile and weary eyes set in a face that isn’t entirely closed off just yet.

Her eyes are just as telling as her words. It doesn’t feel like a stretch to assume this woman has seen more in her lifetime than… well, just more. More of the inevitable peaks and agonies of love and grief and everything in between.

The silver pendant hanging loosely around her neck is tarnished. It’s easy to tell this is a prized possession - her hand returns to it multiple times over the course of our encounter, absentmindedly running a finger over the engraving on the front. I can’t quite make out what it is. A name, maybe, or a date. Not enough detailing for a face. I’m tempted to ask, but it’s not my place to dredge up those kinds of memories. And I won’t deny that part of me is scared, too. I can’t fathom how this woman - this quiet, unassuming woman - shoulders her designated burden day after day; I’m not entirely confident I could bear a fraction of it should she choose to share.

I’m not sure what that says about me, but that’s a thought for another time.

The train rattles on, and her necklace rattles with it. She steadies it with unconscious ease. There’s a ring on her finger, too - a simple golden band. There’s nothing fancy about it, but it evokes such strong sadness in me that I’m taken aback. I hadn’t known this woman ten minutes ago; I suspect I still wouldn’t know everything there is to know about her in ten years. But there’s something about that ring…

She doesn’t touch it as frequently as she touches the necklace. The women around us sport jewels of all sizes from ear lobes and delicate chains; their hands are adorned with inordinate decorations that glitter and shine. It takes time, but I realize eventually that the contrast between her ring and the jewelry that sparkles around us is stark; hers is loved, plain and simple. Against that, the necklaces and rings favored by the other woman come across as harsh, garish.

They are prized, but they are not loved.

The train rumbles to a jarring halt. The woman stands, and her hand finds her necklace again. Deliberate this time - a reassuring touch from an old friend. As though they’ve come to a place she knows well.

She catches my eye as the doors grind open. I start to stammer out some sort of apology for staring, but she merely smiles. It’s every bit as weary as it was before, but it’s genuine all the same.

She pats her necklace one last time. “My son,” she says, and steps off the train.