by Chayala Friedman
You stood opposite me on the train on the worst day of my life. Heading to my grandfather’s funeral, Friday afternoon. There was something about your hands, the way they shook slightly with age and your greying hair. You reminded me of my grandfather. I wanted to catch your eye, maybe smile at you. I loved those hands. The doors opened. Greying hair rustling. You almost brushed against me as you went by. I never saw you again.
