Dear Caltrain,
I love you because . . . even though we're only together for a couple hours each week, the experience is so quiet and so intimate.
In the morning -- before the sun has come up -- I grab my seat on your upper deck and pop in my headphones. The glimpses into backyards in the twilight, like reading a page in someone's diary: a truck on cinder blocks, a lawn in desperate need of mowing, a child's play set.
Despite the noise you, dear Caltrain, are inflicting on these neighbors, likely still tucked warmly in their beds, I am quiet. At peace. Despite all the other passengers, cramming on and off at each stop, we are alone, together.
These quiet moments. These views into lives I know nothing about.
When we pull into 4th & King, I'll unceremoniously gather my things and join the crush of people smooshing through the door. I hope you'll forgive my carelessness, thoughtlessness, potentially seeming indifference.
Until Next Week,
C
Thursday, February 15, 2018
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