Ride

This morning on the way to work, you wish you didn't have to take the train. You know the tiny twinge of fear you feel is unreasonable and unfounded and even a bit self-indulgent, but there it is nonetheless. You see it reflected in a few of the faces of your fellow commuters. It's all too easy to put yourself on a train in London, the smoke, the darkness, the terror and confusion. There but for the grace go I. At Armitage, you watch the Red Line disappear below ground and even though you feel slightly foolish, you silently wish it safe passage. Extra-vigilant, says Mr. Bush. How very helpful, thanks. You look out the window and remember a morning of similar dread four years ago, when a crush of fleeing people packed into a northbound train, eerily quiet but for the occasional updates from a woman with a radio in her ear, and the frantic, fruitless dialing of your co-worker as she searched for news of the plane her father was on somewhere over Georgia. Across the train car that fall day a stranger caught your gaze and held it. Everything will be all right. We're okay. We're okay. You think of the time your el train collided violently with another, and then mentally magnify that chaos and panic a thousandfold. You count the ways you take your safety for granted every single day. You think of Madrid. Any given street in Iraq at an given time. There's no amount of vigilance.

A girl talks quietly into her cell phone. "No, I can't get ahold of him. Nothing yet." Next to her, a woman flips through a celebrity gossip magazine. The young couple in the aisle nuzzle each other's necks and giggle. A pimply kid bobs his head to the Green Day blaring from his iPod and suddenly it's just another day, another commute, another bead on an endless string of matching days. Like tomorrow will be, and Monday, and the day after that. Because despite what the politicians say, you can't let fear and vulnerability rule you. You can be vigilant but must also remain unbowed. There is no other choice.

This morning London broke your heart a little. So cry. Empathize. Mourn.

And then get back on the train.