Life Lessons
How Grief Can be Shared in a Station Hall
A moment of connection can make all the difference
The first notes come into my ears when I scan my train card at the check-out pole. Classical sounds. They trigger Sunday morning associations in me.
It’s a Thursday evening in the Station Hall of Nijmegen. Outside, it’s dark with a slice of moon and some lonely stars above the rails.
Fluorescent tubes are ferociously illuminating every detail of the scene. The uneven flooring, the scurrying passengers, the flower merchant in her quiet shop. Nobody’s buying flowers tonight.
At the entrance of the hall, there’s a piano. Two young men sit on the stool, one buttock each, and they play. Four hands, eighty-eight piano keys, two pedals. Together they string a symphony.
The lads are enjoying themselves and the music doesn’t sound bad. Sometimes, a note escapes. Fluttering undefined to the ceiling. I stand still and let the piano sounds vibrate through my bones. My legs answer by moving slightly. It’s not yet a dance.
Next to me, a woman stops to listen. Her son, perhaps four years old, drives around on his small bicycle. Suddenly, he stops in front of me and asks: “Do you know where my daddy is?”
I hesitate before answering. “No, I don’t know where your daddy is.”
He looks at me reproachfully. He decides to give me a second chance.
“My daddy is in Sudan. Do you know why my daddy is there?”
I study his brown eyes but don’t see any clues.
“I have no idea.”
He says: “Someone died.”
Severe eyes in a dark face.
“All the people are crying. My daddy too.”
He gets back on his bicycle. I look aside. Big tears are streaming down her face.
“How can I ever be strong enough?” she asks.
I touch her shoulder. We feel the sparking wire. For a moment not alone.
“Come,” she says to her son.
The moon winks as they board the train together.
Thank you, Mike, for adding your loving energy to my stories on humanness.