Waiting in the snow for the 43,

Mind focused on the cold.

The bitter wind, the bus kneeling

Propelled me into the warm blue and yellow interior

But the driver told me

Wait, I let the elderly off first

And I waited,

Thanked her for her thoughtfulness,

Shared the weather sentiment,

And sat.

 

My husband won’t turn up the heat at home, she said.

But I’ve always been cold.

 

I caught her eye in the rearview mirror as she

Tracked true down Tremont.

Her story burning bright in her gaze

 

They told me I was eating the wrong things,

That it made the iron in my blood too low,

And it was my fault.

 

She continued on, wove in her 8 child births,

Her 7 surviving children,

Her first baby, her sunshine,

Who came out along with a fibrous growth

That had been bleeding her dry and

Draining her from the inside,

The cause of her coldness.

I told them it wasn’t my fault.

 

Her baby was injured by the blade,

As was she,

And no one told her

I’m sorry

For the misplaced blame,

For the misplaced knife.

 

Are you still cold?

My baby, my sunshine is 17

He brightens my worst days

And I’m no longer cold at home,

Even when my husband won’t turn up the heat.

But I’m still waiting for my apology.

 

“MTA New York City Transit Prepares for W” (CC BY 2.0) by MTAPhotos

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