To The Woman Crying on the Train

Here’s what I wish I could have told you.

To the woman crying on the train,

I spotted you this morning, tears pooling into a scarf the color of a robin’s breast. You thought your crimson shield protected you from prying eyes, but I saw your pain.

I reached over and offered you a tissue. You said one word between sobs.

“Breakup.”

Well, at least the one word wasn’t “death,” although the two often feel the same.

Yeah, so I won’t claim I have the answers, but I’ve swigged my share of gin-soaked heartache. Nor can I offer the usual consolatory platitudes— the “time heals all wounds” blah, blah, blah, nonsense. Everyone knows it’s not that simple.

Besides, we always speak of how time heals as if the time spent forging a bond equals the time spent breaking it. If only love and loss were metered out in palpable measures. But we have all experienced the maddening but simple, elegant proof of love. Sometimes, we walk away from a long-term relationship without much tearing at the chest, while a four-month relationship can leave us reminiscing and ruminating for years.

And let’s face it. When love fractures for fragile reasons —pride, envy, fear, whatever — we pathologize the reasons until no reason remains.

I will try to give you a reason, although it might not bring you comfort now. The problem is that falling in love and out of love light up similar brain regions. When the butterflies flit inside your chest, your brain bathes in feel-good chemicals like dopamine and oxytocin. But when that love is lost, your brain craves those same chemicals, leaving you in withdrawal. Drug addicts and the brokenhearted should form a support group. They are kindred souls to torment.

But I have always believed an invisible thread ties two people who loved each other together forever. Synapses fire, and like a phantom limb, we will always feel that person in our bones.

Your mind and heart will crackle and rekindle. I can hear the desire to heal in the steady rhythm of your sobs. Humans always find comfort in repetition. Flowers bloom and wilt. The tides crash and recede. The cock crows. The night cloaks. A light and a heavy heart drum to the same metronome.

Then, loss waltzes in and rearranges the stars in the night sky. Suddenly, Cassiopeia is zagging instead of zigging, and you have no head for the heights. So you choose despair.

It’s ok not to be ok. For now.

Loss has this way of knocking us into a punch-drunk stupidity. Maybe that’s why the motion of trains and planes makes us cry. Safe inside its steel embryo, we are hurtling forward while remaining still. Loss has a relativity that warps space and time.

But know this. Pain isn’t the end of the story. It’s a chapter, albeit a crappy one, but not the whole damn book.

Life’s got a knack for throwing plot curves, sometimes with rainbow confetti, sometimes with a waterworks display. At this moment, you are caught in the deluge.

You will have other moments. Some will break your heart anew. But others will be happy ones.

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Carlyn Beccia is an award-winning author and illustrator of 13 books. For past articles grouped by subject, see my Table of Contents.

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