train as memoryship

This morning, as the train came up from under Brooklyn Cat Stevens' The Wind started playing - perfectly in time with our release onto the bridge.

The light of the morning was not grey nor white - just sort of dulled natural. I stared out and did not really look at everything I could see. I thought of Harold playing banjo on the cliff. Then I thought of every boy I pined for as a girl. I did not see memoryboys beyond faces - flipped through each face. A memorydeck of girlhood boycards.

Floating into Chinatown I thought of this photograph of my Da as a blonde boy - he is maybe eleven - has a freckled goofy face. The photograph shows one beautiful piece of his hair that is being blown up away from his head - is caught in the wind. I thought of that bit of hair; I thought me too.