Seen.

Minnetonkas. On a subway? Oh, Green Line. 

The Green Line has its share of...idiosyncracies.  The switchblade guy who whipped out said weapon to stab the top of his water bottle, thereby transforming a twist-cap bottle into a squeezable bottle (yeah I don't get it either). The semi-regular whiffs of pot and still-lit cigarette butts. The supposed scented oil salesmen who seem only to frequent this particular set of tracks. The neighborhoods along the line, "forgotten" parts of the DC metro area, seldom frequented by the transplants who call the city home. "It runs southeast of SE DC" followed by an "Ah, I see."

Minnetonkas and sweatpants! If only. So comfortable...

But comfortable seemed antonymous from the expression she wears. Sniffles. North Face backpack still on tight. Hood up, shoulders slumped, and eyes glistening with pre-tears --the little pools that neither dry out nor trickle down. 

It takes a deep to sadness cry in a public place. It takes an even deeper one to cry in a loud metal box screeching its way through the underbelly of the city. I would know. 

For the city kid, public transportation is the thirty-five minutes between "On my way" and "Hey!". But on rough days, it's that stretch of time and social interaction you'd wish away if you had a category for other ways to get around.

She dabs the corners of her eyes, gaze unmoved from the spot two feet in front of her sheepskin slipper shoes. 

"Waterfront."

A tissue. I reach into my bag and take one out. Worst case scenario? She screams in my face and curses me out. I can live with that.

"Thank you."

I guess that was the best case scenario. 

"Navy Yard."

The tissue touches the corner of her eyes. Eyes transfixed on that magic spot. 

Just do it. 

I take the seat next to her.

"Look, I'm from New York, so I'm not gonna get offended if you need your space..."

A chuckle. A hint of a smile. 

"...but are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm alright."

"Where you headed?"

"Home."

"Rough place?"

"Yeah."

Two more stops, shoulder to shoulder.

"Southern Avenue."

She gets up, turns to me,

"Thank you."

"Take care."

--

Dear gal,

There is someone who bears the name, The One Who Sees. Do you know him? 

When the weary, rejected, and lonely come before him, he loves them. The broken find their wholeness, the rebellious renounce their treason, the poor find their provision. 

He isn't far. In fact, he even orchestrates the universe so that He Who Sees may be seen and cherished by those who would gaze upon him. I pray this may be so for you.

Take care.