A Small Song

by William Acks  

          I was waiting at the 57th St F stop after a 6am to 3 pm shift which has a 4 a.m. wake-up call. It's not the cleanest of stations, nor the dirtiest. I was tired; there were several other people that looked exhausted as well on the bench. REAL 9-5 types, the ones that have a 9-5 job, then they sleep for two hours and work a 7-3 am job, real blue-collar types. The silent heroes of society, the ones that operate the cogs and wheels, the smaller jobs that allow us all to function.

         We're this bunch of haggard, underpaid workers waiting zombie-like for the subway when this girl comes to sit down. She's not pretty but not an ugly brute, just an average girl with red squiggly hair, the kind that no matter how you pull it back, sprigs of it will jut out in a half-hazard fashion. Brown pants, a graphic t-shirt, a black canvas bag that's frayed at the edges where the strap connects to the body of the bag. Her eyes are...tired. Not just dark rings, but a real weight to them. Death of
her family, a child awaiting at home perhaps.

         Like all passengers, she looks left, then right down the tracks. Satisfied that it's not about to come anytime soon, she reaches into her back and brings out a roll of yarn, knitting needles and the start of some sort of garment that she has started, too undistinguishable to be a sweater or a scarf. She wraps several strands of emerald-colored yarn around her course, long fingers and begins to knit. The clickety-clack of the needles hitting each other echo throughout the tunnel, as several people exasperate out loud.

        But then, something strange happens. She starts to breath out a song. No words at first, just a silent breath of lip synching, but this then flows into a small hum. The notes seem to flutter throughout the hall, not a resonating and loud echo, but rather as if there were several notes, so small and seemingly insignificant that they could barely be seen or heard.

        Her hum then flows in to words. It wasn't English and it wasn't a foreign language of any sorts. Just primal sounds, soothing to the ear, as if emotions had been transmitted to a series of words that held no meaning in a rational world. It's slow, her words and music, as it dips higher, then lower, lower still, only to be brought back up. The people around her close their eyes, as I do mine.

        I see things, not images, but rather feelings and thoughts. I feel longing in her deep notes. In her high notes there's resignation; not negative, not positive. Confirmation that no matter what, things will continue as they always have, that we have our parts to play. I felt happiness in the sadness is the only way I can put into words. Like a mother singing to a dying child that knows they are about to die, but they don't seem to mind. They smile back, sip the spoon of food that they are fed and close their eyes.

      The girl's song spins through the clack of her knitting needles, through the dim roar of the train approaching. It grows louder, until it arrives. I don't get on. She files in with everyone else, her song halted. The doors close. The train leaves.

      There's silence. But I close my eyes and I can once again hear the notes of longing, of sadness and relinquished pain, veiled by happiness and joy.

     I smile.
 

William Acks lives in Brooklyn.