Dastrix Slogan
Bluelighter
Partially inspired by SpeedLimit55's "-alone-"
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The morning was thick with mist, one of those mornings that you could smell the cold. The smell of cold fresh water, just hanging in the air. I guess I was sharing my own little private rain cloud with everyone that day. I waited for a dry body to get up off one of the plastic benches that were placed scarcely along the platform, so if I sat down in that place it would be dry, so that I wouldn't sit in the cold that forms on the surface and slides down the single plastic wedge into a wet puddle where you would least like it. I hated winter, especially here where summer was so beautiful.
The old man I sat down next to barely noticed me at first. He was dressed in a large, worn, shaggy anorak and would have looked like an old grizzly bear was it not for the pink wrinkled face that stuck out from underneath the hood. He was fingering an old red biscuit tin, a small square tin with what looked like teddy bears painted on a red background. Old red and worn, the tin to match the face. He was battling to open the tin, and became noticeably more distraught the more he could not open it. Every now and then he would let out a little snort through his nose as he picked at the lid with the brown gloved fingers on his right hand, his left one holding the tin as much as he could without letting the pale yellow three month ticket out of his grasp.
I was just about to look away, start looking down the other end of the platform, start looking for someone else not to talk to, when he turned to me and asked: "Please help me". Two small little blue eyes looked up at me and I could see them starting to tear. "Please help me, I need to open this and..." he stopped in mid sentence, just staring for a few seconds and then said ".. and I don't remember why. "I don't remember much these days, not much these days". He seemed to lose focus again, but then looked down at his tin and slowly handed it to me.
I smiled and took it from him and remember wishing feverishly that I could indeed open it and wouldn't have to deal with this old man sitting next to me and crying, crying over his old biscuit tin. Fortunately my bare hands found the lipped edge of the lid and with little effort I managed to lodge my nails underneath and open the lid for him, and watch his face light up with relief. Inside were a few papers, a pen, some coins and the smell of old butter biscuits. Anxiously he gestured for the tin, and I returned it to him saying "no problem" each time to his multitude of thank you's.
It was a shock to watch his face grow sad again as he rummaged through the tin, slowing picking up each item, inspecting each one in turn and slowly placing them back, each one bringing its own small smile which disappeared with the trinket back into the tin. He pulled out a small pearl brooch that had been hiding under some papers, and again he seemed to stop in mid thought, just staring at for a few seconds. "Memories" he said suddenly, turning to me. As he did I saw his mouth grimace, he was trying not to cry. But one lone tear had grown too much to hold and was now slowly making its way down one of the lines on his face. I felt my throat start to burn. He pointed at his head "This old tin doesn't hold them any more, so I had to put the ones I had left in here" he said slowly raising the tin. "So I don't lose them for good".
He looked down at the brooch again and I saw the tear slide off his chin and drop into his lap. He never even seemed to notice. His gloved hand closed on it. "Three quarters of my life I spent waiting for summer" he said as he slowly placed the brooch back in the tin and closed the lid. "I have lost so much in that wait. Now the summer I waited for will never come". He was shaking his head. "Don't waste it, not one minute, don't you waste it." He paused "You can never get it back"
He drifted off again, staring blankly at the tin for a few seconds as the dirty yellow and black train slid to a stop at the platform in front of us. He glanced up at the number of the train and then back down at his ticket, making the connection he raised himself slowly off the bench and walked into the open doors of the train and was gone. I had always wondered what the number of that train was, that day it sped out the station making the mist curl behind it in long spidery wisps. I could only see a few blurry black shapes in the top left hand corner of the train, the tears already dripping cold drops onto my legs through the fabric of my jeans.
![:\](https://bluelight.org/xf/BL_Images/Orig_Emoji/wrygrin.gif "wry grin :\")
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The morning was thick with mist, one of those mornings that you could smell the cold. The smell of cold fresh water, just hanging in the air. I guess I was sharing my own little private rain cloud with everyone that day. I waited for a dry body to get up off one of the plastic benches that were placed scarcely along the platform, so if I sat down in that place it would be dry, so that I wouldn't sit in the cold that forms on the surface and slides down the single plastic wedge into a wet puddle where you would least like it. I hated winter, especially here where summer was so beautiful.
The old man I sat down next to barely noticed me at first. He was dressed in a large, worn, shaggy anorak and would have looked like an old grizzly bear was it not for the pink wrinkled face that stuck out from underneath the hood. He was fingering an old red biscuit tin, a small square tin with what looked like teddy bears painted on a red background. Old red and worn, the tin to match the face. He was battling to open the tin, and became noticeably more distraught the more he could not open it. Every now and then he would let out a little snort through his nose as he picked at the lid with the brown gloved fingers on his right hand, his left one holding the tin as much as he could without letting the pale yellow three month ticket out of his grasp.
I was just about to look away, start looking down the other end of the platform, start looking for someone else not to talk to, when he turned to me and asked: "Please help me". Two small little blue eyes looked up at me and I could see them starting to tear. "Please help me, I need to open this and..." he stopped in mid sentence, just staring for a few seconds and then said ".. and I don't remember why. "I don't remember much these days, not much these days". He seemed to lose focus again, but then looked down at his tin and slowly handed it to me.
I smiled and took it from him and remember wishing feverishly that I could indeed open it and wouldn't have to deal with this old man sitting next to me and crying, crying over his old biscuit tin. Fortunately my bare hands found the lipped edge of the lid and with little effort I managed to lodge my nails underneath and open the lid for him, and watch his face light up with relief. Inside were a few papers, a pen, some coins and the smell of old butter biscuits. Anxiously he gestured for the tin, and I returned it to him saying "no problem" each time to his multitude of thank you's.
It was a shock to watch his face grow sad again as he rummaged through the tin, slowing picking up each item, inspecting each one in turn and slowly placing them back, each one bringing its own small smile which disappeared with the trinket back into the tin. He pulled out a small pearl brooch that had been hiding under some papers, and again he seemed to stop in mid thought, just staring at for a few seconds. "Memories" he said suddenly, turning to me. As he did I saw his mouth grimace, he was trying not to cry. But one lone tear had grown too much to hold and was now slowly making its way down one of the lines on his face. I felt my throat start to burn. He pointed at his head "This old tin doesn't hold them any more, so I had to put the ones I had left in here" he said slowly raising the tin. "So I don't lose them for good".
He looked down at the brooch again and I saw the tear slide off his chin and drop into his lap. He never even seemed to notice. His gloved hand closed on it. "Three quarters of my life I spent waiting for summer" he said as he slowly placed the brooch back in the tin and closed the lid. "I have lost so much in that wait. Now the summer I waited for will never come". He was shaking his head. "Don't waste it, not one minute, don't you waste it." He paused "You can never get it back"
He drifted off again, staring blankly at the tin for a few seconds as the dirty yellow and black train slid to a stop at the platform in front of us. He glanced up at the number of the train and then back down at his ticket, making the connection he raised himself slowly off the bench and walked into the open doors of the train and was gone. I had always wondered what the number of that train was, that day it sped out the station making the mist curl behind it in long spidery wisps. I could only see a few blurry black shapes in the top left hand corner of the train, the tears already dripping cold drops onto my legs through the fabric of my jeans.
