This Sunday is no exception--it is
mid-morning, and I'm on the train to church.
I go because I want to believe in His
love, and his, and I wonder every time

if it will ever be possible to reconcile
the two. The ride seems longer today
than usual, and I try not to fidget while
the smudged landscape blurs by outside.

The couple sitting across from me
seems impossibly old. Their heads
are bobbing, eyes closed, so I'm free
to stare at their hands, knobbed

and knotty like old wood, to linger
on skin flecked brown with age spots,
wedding bands around their ring fingers,
yellowing veins, the way they lean

into each other. My gaze leaves no traces;
they don't wake, so I crane my neck
to catch a glimpse of their faces.
They aren't as old as they first appeared,

but their spent, shallow breathing
must mean something. Piled around them,
their worn baggage topples in a heaving
cascade onto the filthy floor of the train.

A red blanket blooms out of a dull plastic
bag next to them and overtakes the next seat.
I wonder briefly if they are homeless, then
decide they are traveling. With a neat

trick of my mind, they've been married since
1955, their children long grown and moved away.
They've tired of hearing their footsteps mince
down the stairs, tired of drawn-out mornings

with crossword puzzles, afternoon soap
operas, weak cups of tea, boredom. I think
they've just been to Chicago, bearing hope
and love to new grandchildren, or maybe

they've been visiting with old friends from
his company; a spontaneous plane flight
and they were in Des Moines, blinking at the hum
of the bright, flat earth. He wakes first, rubs

watery eyes and turns to his wife, rousing her
with a tender smile. He brushes straggling
hairs from her forehead, kisses where they were,
leans in close to her ear. "Wake up, love."

His voice cracks like old leather. "We're
almost there." She lurches like a tugboat
while he gathers their things, tries to steer
her towards the door in time for their stop.

It's not until I get to church that I see
how obvious it is: the tender way he led her
to the door, how she took his hand freely
and held on. She'll never need to let go.

I'm late for Mass. I toss a quarter, as penance,
into the coffer and slip unnoticed to my seat.
From the back pew, with honest reverence,
I offer a silent prayer:
                Wake up, love. We're almost there.